Those Who Play With Fire
by Soul Fifty
Summary: An AU of The Dragon Prince characters surviving in The Hunger Games universe. Pairing Rayla and Callum. Ch. 10: His mentor stood before him, evidently even more excited than he was nervous. 'The president's daughter,' he recognized numbly. 'Last year's Victor is standing right in front of me. She . . . she chose me'
1. More Than Glory - Amaya

**This AU came to me during class on a Thursday afternoon so six pages of prior planning on Google Docs and nine pages of Amaya's background later, here we are. This chapter is a prologue of sorts and doesn't _need_ to be read in order to understand the coming chapters. It just provides some insight into Callum's family's past, as well as some extra emotions.**

**I'm very excited to start working on the main storyline. It'll be pairing Rayla and Callum but many of The Dragon Prince characters will be main/very important characters in this series. Ambition fail me not, I couldn't be more thrilled to start this clich****é AU! Hope you enjoy!**

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Nobody anticipated her victory.

From her childhood it was evident that she was to be a victor, but never a Victor of the Games. So when her name was drawn at the fragile age of nine, her district - District 9 - only expected an unfair death. The killing of a child who could not hear and could not speak.

This girl had covert plans, though.

Disregarding her deafness, Amaya had grown up naturally reserved. Discreet. Never one to purposefully call attention to herself. In her district this only guaranteed bad luck. By the time she began training under the watchful eyes of mentors and gamemakers, not a single person had witnessed what she was capable of.

Amaya played on everyone's lack of awareness. She chose to work with weapons she had never seen before, allowing her to obtain more knowledge of what might be in store for the Games, while also showing people that she was seemingly unfamiliar with everything she touched. Lowering their expectations for her.

None of the other tributes, not even the boy summoned from her own district, so much as glanced in her direction throughout their weeks of training, though. When the countdown ended and the Games officially started, everyone gauged that it would only be a matter of moments before Amaya was taken out.

Gamemakers viewed her only hope as Lujanne, the Victor assigned to be the young girl's mentor. Lujanne had won her Game through tricks and traps. Gathering fatal herbs that feigned fruits and placing them in the hands of Careers, fabricating herself as an ally only to double-cross her alliances, refusing to sleep until the moon crowned the sky and offered enough light for her to prepare traps and ambush the remaining tributes.

Everyone had underestimated her. Even in the process of killing what she saw as prey, Lujanne radiated a type of bemused elation that caused people to view her as far less mature than she truly was. If so many had underestimated one of the most astute Victors, even more would surely underestimate those in the future. Lujanne believed that this nine-year-old girl could be one of them. One of the clever ones. In spite of gamemakers' dissatisfaction, Lujanne took Amaya under her wing within hours of watching her train.

A week passed before Amaya trusted Lujanne enough to show her her real strengths and weaknesses. Crucial time was wasted, but Lujanne's keenness to save Amaya held fast. Together they ran drills with weapons that Amaya adapted to quickly. Old-fashioned swords and shields, bows and arrows, daggers and poison. Amaya was swift and agile. Knowing beyond her years. Confidence shimmered in her eyes whenever she grasped the notion of what she was doing, of how it would help her survive.

Lujanne trained her away from the rest of the tributes. Another trick on her mentor's part, as nobody but the gamemakers knew what Amaya was capable of by the time her training concluded.

Undeterred by Lujanne's orders when the Games began, Amaya ran into the cornucopia. Inside the heart of this bloodbath were teenagers - kids - already fighting to the death. Spurred on by desperation and enmity and horror, tributes that hadn't yet acquired a weapon tried to tear each other from the limbs. Those who did have weapons neglected to put their weeks of training to use. Amaya saw someone use the back of what looked like a hammer to strike a girl far bigger than herself. Another girl caught a boy in a snare that was simply her bow. She yanked it back and the boy fell with a sickening thud, only to be met with frantic stabs from arrows that were meant to soar, not to be plunged into someone's back.

Mere seconds into the Games had stalled and people's ears were already pulsing because of the countless canons sounding.

Amaya was the youngest tribute by two or three years. Her frame was small but sturdy so once again, nobody paid her any mind while she ducked and weaved past bodies and brawls. She didn't go for the backpacks (she could see that others were already aiming for those). Instead she went for a shield and sword nearly half her size. While she sprinted away, she wrenched out a dagger that had been skewered into a lifeless teen's leg.

This was the first thing to catch the attention of people watching at home.

But there was no hesitation in her movements as she fled the scene, no regret in her actions. Never once did she look back. Not until the sun began to set. Not until she could see the moon rising above the horizon.

The girl recalled Lujanne's unusual fascination with the moon. During her mentor's run in the Games, Lujanne had only worked at night. Maybe it was because the other tributes were sleeping or letting their guards fall with the shadows, but when the sky was dark, Lujanne performed best. Still not understanding exactly why this was, Amaya decided to follow in her mentor's footsteps. That night she calculated her plans for every tribute still alive.

After a sheer three hours of sleep, Amaya rose the next day and made her way to those who strayed from their groups or figured their best chance of survival was alone. Endurance and adrenaline kept her on her toes, kept her mind sharper than those around her. When morning had passed Amaya came across a boy who was two heads taller than her, but posed as no real threat. Her sword was tucked under her arm and her shield remained thrust out in front of her. Amaya's fingers curled around the handle of her dagger until her knuckles turned white, giving away her current motive.

The boy turned around with a pitiful gaze when he heard Amaya approaching. Obviously miscalculating what Amaya was qualified of doing, he failed to run away or fight back. He simply stood there, watching her.

In a flash so fast that people at home had to replay the scene in slow motion in order to properly perceive what had happened, Amaya leaped forward and sunk her dagger into the boy's stomach. Once he fell to his knees, she used her sword to force him onto his back before stabbing the side of his neck.

It took lengthy seconds for his breath to fail and enough blood to pump out, but Amaya stayed with him until he was dead. Before backing away, people in every district watched as the girl closed his eyes and signed something that no one in the arena would be able to understand.

She killed two other kids that day, using more or less the same method. Always closing their eyes after their last breath left them.

That night the canon blared five times.

When Amaya gazed at the stars it was evident that the wheels in her mind were spinning. There were barely ten souls still standing. The next morning would mark only the second day.

People at home who watched Amaya's kills realized that day how dangerous she was. Everyone in every district was able to fathom how threatening she was.

Yet nobody in the arena had a clue.

Sponsors then began to make themselves known. When Amaya woke the next morning, her eyes went wide at the sight of two canteens. One was filled with bread and jerky. The other revealed a vial that had yet to be filled. Preceding her departure, Amaya wrote "thank you" in the dirt and waited a few moments, unsure of whether or not the cameras had had enough time to display this to her sponsors. She ran her hands through the dirt and effectively rid the terrain of her evidence before starting the second day.

There was a creek a couple of miles away from Amaya's hideout. In the process of filling her vial, the girl failed to notice two tributes approaching. Both were on opposite sides in the sense of the Games, but this was still bad news. Amaya bustled to the other side of the stream and sized them up with a glare.

One - a girl - was a distinct Career. In her hands was a weapon mirroring the structure of a harpoon. The other one was a boy. He was a loner but Amaya saw how dangerous he really was. The Career girl saw this, too. Her eyes kept flitting from the Amaya to the boy.

This loner was tall but lanky. Scars crisscrossed his exposed skin and three of his fingers had been cut down to nubs. His clothes were worn and ratty, but the array of knives on his belt were clean enough to gleam. His eyes rested on Amaya for the better of two seconds, then settled on the Career girl.

Promptly deciding that the Career was more of a threat, the boy lunged for her with his teeth bared. Amaya shrank back, but made no move to run away. He wasn't attacking her yet.

Some people watching their televisions alluded that Amaya wasn't watching the dispute for entertainment. She was taking mental notes.

Like a wild animal, the boy attacked the Career with untrained skill and raw defiance. Amaya noted that this Career couldn't have been more different from her opponent. Where the girl used her brute strength and skill, the boy dodged her attacks and whirled back and forth from her grab, anticipating his next move on the fly.

There were trees all around them. The loner used this to his advantage, knocking the Career to a corner and forcing her backwards into the creek. Amaya shuffled farther away.

Before the Career could compose herself, the boy dived into the water, taking one of his knives and slashing her arm parallel to her bone. If that wasn't enough, he then went on to whip out another knife, pressing it to her throat to keep her from fighting back. In a matter of seconds the stream began to run red with blood. The Career died warily, wordlessly, and without struggle.

Once her body had stopped moving, the boy plunged her head under the water. A satisfied look crossed his face when he discerned that she was truly dead. A canon blared in the distance. Then he looked to Amaya.

Amaya's first instinct was to hold her ground. However, her mind was telling her to flee, to drop her gear so she could run away even faster. This boy's eyes were dark. His expression wasn't bloodthirsty but it was fierce enough to hold Amaya in place. Weighing her options carefully, the girl lowered her head and slit her eyes to glare daggers at him.

This roused a chuckle from the stranger. He bent down quickly, causing Amaya to draw her sword and raise her shield. But the boy was merely washing off his blades and putting them back in his belt.

"Today I will protect you," he said. "My name is Farrell."

_Feral?_ Amaya signed.

"Farrell," the boy said a bit more slowly.

Amaya shook her head. Only when she signed the letters _F-E-R-A-L_ did the boy realize what she meant. He counted the number of times her hand changed motions and compared the number to the amount of letters in the word "feral," understanding that even a girl who couldn't hear thought his name resembled the idea of a wild animal. People had made this mistake many times before. Another chuckle split from him and Amaya backed away while he waded to the bank of the stream.

He wrote "Farrell" in the sand, then the word "feral," and drew a slash through the latter. He pointed at his name as he said it again. With mindfulness that she didn't know he had, Farrell watched her sign his name in response. He looked enthralled, eager to learn. Three feet lengthened between them but Amaya didn't falter when showing the boy how to sign his own name. There was even the trace of a smile on her lips when he was able to sign it without aid.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Amaya crept closer to the shore, positioning her shield in Farrell's direction and writing her name in the sand with her dagger.

"Amaya," he read. He looked up at her and tilted his head. "How do you say it?"

So the girl taught him how to sign her name, too. Maybe if this wasn't the Games, maybe if they both knew that at least one of them would be dead in a week's time, Amaya would have taken the time to show him how to sign the entire alphabet. Maybe, in another life, they could have even been friends.

But this was her life now. There was no disdaining this. No more dwelling on what could have been.

Amaya never got close enough to let the boy touch her, even if he had a knife in his hand, but Farrell sought to prove himself to the girl. To show her that for that day, he really would protect her. There was no time to write in the sand that she didn't need protecting, nor was there enough time to teach him the sign language that told him this. At this point though, everyone watching at home knew that she was smart enough to survive anything Farrell might throw at her. Even if this included his trust.

On the way to Farrell's camp they stumbled across two more tributes. One ran away within the first glimpse of Farrell and Amaya thought she saw his chest swell at the sight of this. The other, a boy who looked to be about eighteen, held his ground.

Farrell started towards him with a single goal in mind, but Amaya threw her dagger into the ground with such force that it pierced the forest floor with sound, garnering her partner's attention.

"What?" he hissed. Farrell's eyebrows were pressed together and both of his hands were clutching the handles of his knives.

Struggling to sign things that Farrell could comprehend, Amaya pointed behind the eighteen-year-old, then at herself. She crept backward quietly, measuring each step in a careful, soundless fashion.

Farrell frowned even more at this, but there was no denying the curiosity that glinted in his face. A curt nod later, Amaya was darting behind the trees and making her way to the eighteen-year-old's blind spot.

She didn't think anything gave her position away, albeit the new tribute did glance behind himself a few times. As she settled into place, Farrell came barreling towards the eighteen-year-old. He drove him back and Amaya readied her sword just in time for the tribute to collide into it. Such desperation and force were behind his movements that Amaya found her sword actually impaling the male before her. Although his muscles were tensed and his feet were continuing to move, like he was still trying to get away.

"You're stuck," Amaya saw Farrell say as he approached the tribute. In a lively motion that Amaya could hardly see, Farrell drew one of his knives and slit his foe's throat.

From behind the eighteen-year-old's shoulder, Amaya saw Farrell show his face to her.

"Do you want help?" questioned her partner, pointing to the girl's sword.

Amaya shook her head and pushed the body away from herself, pulling her sword from the flesh shrouding it and backing away from Farrell. Her partner was awed at the fact that a nine-year-old could wrench her sword back with such nerve, though.

At that moment he realized that this was not her first kill.

But Amaya could sense this, too. When Farrell led her back to his camp, she plunged her shield into the ground against a tree, no longer allowing herself to trust Farrell. There she curled up within the ninety-degree angle and kicked her sword to the only opening of her makeshift shelter with the blade pointed outwards. Her eyes remained open until the moon cast light on the forest floor, her dagger clasped tightly in her hand for the rest of the night. More than one canon went off before she fell into a half-hearted slumber.

Without words shared with her, Amaya knew that Farrell had discovered her secret. She couldn't let him live with this knowledge.

That morning before the sun had risen, Amaya leaped from her shelter and threw her dagger straight into Farrell's chest. He woke up groaning violently, grabbing the handle and peering up at Amaya in a sort of heated allure. Amaya wasted no time, tightening her hold on her sword and aiming to the left of his chest. She crashed down on him with a clanging thud, managing to press her dagger deeper into her partner's body.

Farrell died slowly. The more he fought back, the more pain thundered through his body. Even he knew that it was no use, that fighting back wasn't worth it. Yet Amaya never relented. As he was spitting curses into her face, she blanked her gaze and focused on applying more strength to the blades embedded inside him.

Once he stilled, the girl jerked her weapons back one at a time, hoping Farrell's satisfied expression didn't cross her face when she found him to be truly dead. She closed his eyes and turned around to find two canteens sitting in the clearing. They had been left there by sponsors overnight. Neither tribute had noticed. One had bread and jerky again, but the other had a slimmer, sharper knife that didn't compare to the quality of any knives strung up on Farrell's belt.

This time there was trace hesitation in her movements when she seized the knife and slid it into the waistline of her pants for safe keeping. Amaya took the canteen meant for herself and made her way back to her own camp, stopping at the creek to fill up her vial. She made sure to go upstream before collecting any water.

The third day was spent solely in Amaya's hideout. She ate and drank periodically throughout the day. She practiced battle moves that Lujanne had taught her. That night after she fell asleep, the canon sounded three times.

Unbeknownst to the tributes, the Games would only last two more days. The fourth day would include Amaya sneaking to the Careers' camp. It was located in the cornucopia.

When Amaya got within yards of the camp she saw that there were no more loners left. The Careers were talking frenetically, their mouths moving almost too fast for Amaya to see what they were saying. Their hand motions were jerky and choppy. Frustrated. They were trying to figure out who was left, who had killed all of the loners. Whose signature move was apparently shutting their eyes.

_You,_ Amaya told herself.

From her position near the base of a tree, she saw two Careers split off from the group. One started pacing around the left of the cornucopia, the other taking the right side. Distance was somewhat great between the guards and the other Careers.

Amaya approached the guard on the right, walking up to the teenager slowly, not trying to startle her.

"Woah," the Career girl gasped when she saw Amaya. Something flickered in her eyes. Pity clashing with ferocity. Giving the Career no time to decide if she should spare Amaya or not, the nine-year-old lunged. There was thankfully no shouting or screaming as Amaya killed the Career. Once she fell to the ground, Amaya closed her eyes and worked her way to the left of the cornucopia, doing the same to the other guard.

This left only three Careers standing. Lujanne's tactics flashed in Amaya's mind and she receded back into the trees until the moon began to climb. She felt something sinking in her stomach and pumping her heart faster as she saw the curses and bellows that escaped the remaining Careers' mouths when they discovered their two guards with still heartbeats and closed eyes.

That same night, after two canons had sounded, Amaya attacked. Only one guard was positioned in the entrance of the cornucopia now. He was a hard kill. By the time Amaya found the last Careers there was dried blood on her hands and face. One Career jumped out from his spot and the other - a girl no older than fourteen - shadowed him. Amaya slipped her hand low enough to grab the knife meant for Farrell and chucked it at the Career boy. It did no damage. He dodged it and came running towards Amaya, the Career girl close behind.

Amaya turned around and fled, circling the cornucopia and making her way onto boxes of supplies that were set up around the structure, pulling herself up onto the low roof. Vibrations resounded in the air as the boy shouted something to the girl Career. Shaky hands began scratching at the roof.

The girl was trying to climb after her. Amaya started towards her and let instinct take over, stomping on whatever fingers she was able to see. Bones crunching beneath her feet made Amaya's blood run hot, but the Career didn't give up. She clambered onto the roof and adjusted her stance, fighting to balance herself but to little avail. Doubt was not seen in Amaya's actions as she hurtled in the Career's direction, bracing her shield in front of her and knocking her off the roof. The fourteen-year-old landed on the ground and fell still.

Amaya's last Career took her by surprise, landing a blow to the side of her head that made darkness push the edges of her vision. Another blow made her footing fail and the next moment Amaya found herself sprawled out on the boxes that led up to the roof. Her arm was bent at an unnatural angle below her back.

Amaya couldn't dwell, though. She slid down the boxes and grimaced as their corners scratched at her arms and legs. Night was still heavy in the air, making it hard for both tributes to see clearly, but Amaya turned on her heel the moment she felt the ground beneath her feet.

The Career and the girl met in battle and people at home jumped to their feet, believing Amaya truly had a chance.

Gamemakers were not thrilled to see that she had become the fan favorite.

While the Career relied on acrimony and triumph, Amaya relied on the survival methods Lujanne had taught her. Once the boy jumped off the roof, Amaya ran at him with her shield and forced him back against the boxes. It was a deadly fight. All the Career had was a baseball bat and a dagger. Desperation to win drove him on and he switched the bat and the blade in his hands, swinging at the girl with an alarming amount of hostility. Although Amaya was small and quick, the Career's dagger did come in contact with her.

One moment she was bending her knees to evade the bat and the next moment she felt an acute pain erupt too close to her eye.

Maybe the Career thought that he had blinded her, that now all he had to do was land the final blow. Maybe he realized that he had undoubtedly just scarred a child, and that that still wasn't enough. Either way, his movements slowed for a fleeting moment, and Amaya used that opening to thrust her own dagger into his neck. Their height difference made for a sloppy jab but everyone could see that that damage had been done.

Amaya backed away slowly, then turned to run into the night.

She waited in the shelter of the trees, praying that the Career would stay by the faint glow of the fire near the cornucopia. It took much longer than anyone had expected, but ultimately the Career died. His face stilled furiously, contorted in a medley of pain and hatred.

A sickening stillness still found its way over the arena, though. Amaya looked up at the sky and waited for the helicopters to come to her, to save her.

But hours past and nothing happened.

_There must be one more,_ Amaya thought. The sun would be rising soon. Yet Amaya found that it was an absurd idea to try and sleep. Only one more enemy remained. She had to take them out. She had to get out of this.

Both tributes found each other in the light of dawn. Somehow Amaya was not surprised to see that her final competitor was the boy from her own district. How he had made it this far, Amaya never found out.

Their eyes met but their expressions revealed nothing. They stood paces away from each other for a long while, both wordlessly understanding what needed to be done.

This boy was around fifteen. Amaya knew his name was Tien and that he knew her language, but that was it. He had greasy brown hair. There were scuff marks on his shoes and tears in his clothes. Something about him seemed to be dwindling.

_Let's make this fight good,_ he signed to her. _We need to give them a dramatic ending._

Amaya felt herself exhale. She nodded once. _Good luck, Tien._

They charged each other and he knocked Amaya to the ground. It nearly looted the breath from her lungs but she hastily refocused her attention to the boy's hands, recoiling at the pain that began to burn in her bad arm.

_Victor,_ he signed. He raised one of his hands in the air and tried to strike the girl's cheek. She turned her head at the last moment, causing Tien to slam his fist into the forest floor. One heartbeat later and he had recovered, looming over Amaya with his hands in her line of sight.

_You will be Victor._

His eyes bored into hers, willing her to understand. Back in the districts, people wondered what Tien had signed to make Amaya's expression become so solemn and pained. But the visage was gone a moment later.

Amaya took out her dagger and curled her fingers around it steadily. In a quick motion, she sliced the boy's throat. He died quickly, his lifeless body falling onto her the moment she took her weapon back. Amaya pushed him off herself and laid him on his back.

As she shut his eyes, the force of descending helicopters began to make the trees tremble. Amaya looked up and saw Peacekeepers throwing a rolled-up ladder out of the chopper. The leaves around her whirled into the wind currents, whipping at her face and dominating her attention.

"Come on!" she saw one of the Peacekeepers shout. They did not offer her aid while she made her way to the suspended ladder and climbed into the machine. Everyone knew that she was not badly injured. She'd won with flying colors.

The youngest tribute to ever survive.

Amaya's right arm was broken and the gash below her eye would scar. There were no more visible injuries that would endure, though. No important ones, anyway.

Amaya returned to her district as Victor, gifting her people with much-needed supplies. Riches, too.

Sarai was the only one to greet her with a jubilant smile and outstretched arms. Amaya fell into her sister's grasp with tears running down her cheeks. She would tell her everything within the first night back home. She would turn to her when everyone in their district deemed her as nothing less than a monster.

In the years to come, Amaya would leave her district to become a mentor at the age of thirteen. A handful of people in every district would learn sign language in hopes of getting the chance to talk with the Games's youngest Victor. Gamemakers would refuse to be seen in the same room as her. Other Victors regarded her with a deep sense of respect, though. Mentors that taught alongside Amaya formed a family made up of survivors. The only people who truly understood each other.

Over the course of seven years, two of her tributes would become Victors. Five would perish in the Games.

Amaya returned home when she was nineteen, claiming that she had done enough. From the moment her name had been drawn, the following ten years of her life had been devoted to the Games. Gamemakers did not try to stop her from leaving.

When she arrived home there was little talk about her in the other districts. Game hosts wouldn't dare bring up her name in interviews. An unplanned, unapproved Victor was never remembered. But Amaya was alright with this. She asked her district to forget about her past. She never wanted to be Victor, she only wanted to survive.

The next few years in her home passed peacefully. People in her district learned to trust her again, that they could always trust her. Like the mentors she'd said goodbye to in the Capitol, her district formed a close bond with her when she returned home for the final time.

There was still a large sum of money left over that she used to take care of her family. No more winters were spent shivering in drafty shelters, no more days were spent starving until her vision blurred. Everything was as near perfect as the world would allow. For Amaya and her family, anyway.

About the time Amaya was habituated enough to see the things awry with her district, Sarai revealed that she was pregnant, and some months later gave birth to a son: Callum. Amaya knew then that she wanted a better place for her kin to grow up in. If she could not make his world better, she would at least make his district a better, safer place.

She asked Sarai to never tell Callum or any other children in their district of her participation in the Games, to help urge their people to sincerely never talk about her past again. Amaya knew she could not bear seeing any auspicious youths following in her footsteps, thinking they could carry out the same victories and murders as her.

_I have already killed enough children,_ she explained to her sister.

Further motivated by Callum's arrival, Amaya focused on the things that could be amended in her district. Implementing changes was far harder than envisioning them, though. Just because she was Victor did not mean she wielded a high enough title in the districts' societies. More years fared and Amaya found herself getting nowhere. Something more had to be done. There was no doubt that lingered in her mind when she recognized that it was her who had to make a difference. The time to rely on others had diminished.

During this occasion Sarai had spent the past months talking to someone from District 8. A promising young man named Harrow would meet Sarai on the border between their districts and when she would come home well into evening, Amaya discovered an alighted air about her sister she had never witnessed before. Within months, Harrow joined Sarai in District 9 and they were wed.

Amaya confided in Harrow, revealing her struggles to better their district. New outlooks could help, and Harrow was a smart man. Together he, Amaya, and Sarai began constructing notions for a better future. They formed an ambiguous coalition within their district as a support system for their brainstorms and plans.

Despite her victory, Amaya's district had since returned to its original state. There was not enough food and medicine to go around, leaving many starving and sick in the streets of their town. Water was never sterile enough to clearly see through, but people couldn't afford to be fastidious. More homes were being dismantled each year due to ruffians and storms. Families sought out solace only to be met with more calamities.

Amaya's coalition offered aid to anyone in need.

They set up their quarters on the outskirts of District 9's most populated town. Even though Amaya, Sarai, and Harrow were its leaders, they lived in shanties like everyone else. Amaya, who the people revered most, lived in the smallest dwelling of them all.

Townsfolk flocked to the outskirts of this town and pledged their loyalty to the coalition. With the help of the coalition's new affiliates, this new community built excess amounts of homes for people who no longer had a place to rest their heads at night. Families were able to unite under one roof, orphans were taken in, the sick and elderly were tended to, and those who believed in what the coalition stood for protected its people with a devotion so passionate Amaya couldn't compare it to the tributes who fought in the Games each year.

District 9's former Victor was in charge of providing people with food three days out of the week (though she most always put in another day of hunting for good measure). Amaya's residual days were spent overseeing other needs in the neighborhood of shanties the nearest town called "Hoovervilles." Taking part in diplomatic matters and representing her district's coalition was what people believed Amaya to do more admirably than anyone else.

Time prolonged into a state of peace and soon Sarai and Harrow brought a new life into the world.

"Ezran," Harrow told Amaya when he handed her the bundle of blankets shrouding his newborn son. Amaya felt her heart swell at the sight of her nephew's precious face. If she hadn't known better, Amaya would have guessed that Ezran had been born smiling. She cradled him for the better of an hour, rocking him gently while Harrow and Callum tended to Sarai.

When Sarai had recovered, Callum appeared before Amaya with outstretched arms. He was nearly six now, but the memory of Amaya returning home to see Sarai's familiar smile and wide-open arms flashed in her mind at the sight of Callum asking to hold his baby brother. Amaya bent down to Callum's level and gently handed Ezran to him, smiling when her eldest nephew's expression softened into an impossibly raw display of surety and love. He disappeared into another part of the shanty, his pinkie in Ezran's hand and his mouth moving in coos.

Amaya made her way into the single bedroom that her sister's family slept in. Sarai was propped up with pillows and wool blankets on the bed, Harrow at her side, their fingers intertwined. Her smile was wearied but the gleam in her eyes was telling of how happy she really was.

_Our district is becoming a better place for both of your sons,_ Amaya told Sarai and Harrow. _I will never stop fighting for them._

Harrow beamed at his wife fondly, hope and respect dividing his expression when his eyes found Amaya. He glanced out of the room where Callum was walking with Ezran outside, pointing out every flower, animal, and person that crossed their path. Without needing to say anything, Harrow nodded his head in Amaya's direction. It was clear that to everyone in the room, these kids were their greatest reason to fight for a better future.

_Neither will we,_ Sarai signed.


	2. A Cease of Fiction - Rayla

**We meet Rayla, Runaan, and Tinker in this chapter! Because we don't know Tinker's real name I had to improvise by naming him Tide, but in the following chapter Rayla will start calling him Tinker just to clear things up. I have an abundance of hate for flashbacks but this was the only easy way to explain Rayla's past. The majority of the next chapter will take place in real time, though!**

**Useful fun facts: _Ceannard_ is equivalent to "leader" and _leas-cheannard_ is equivalent to "deputy" in Scottish Gaelic.**

**(Also, I headcanon that Rayla's father had the strongest Scottish accent ever and therefore Rayla's accent might be more prominent in this AU, especially when she gets emotional.)**

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Being this close to her was leaving Rayla unsound after so many years of distance. The girl squared her shoulders in a fragmented attempt at assurance. How many years had it been? Six? Seven? Somewhere between there was the answer.

The woman Rayla was gazing at was beyond sickly, but there were people here taking care of her. Trying to, at least. Despite her state of mind, she was in good hands.

Her once lush, light blonde hair was now white and short at her neck. Multiple split ends could be seen from where Rayla was standing. Even the woman's eyes looked dark and dull. Everything about her was gray, in a sense. Other women were surrounding her, giving fleeting attempts to try and include her in their conversations, but to no avail.

Lost in her own world, her unforgotten memories, the woman failed to notice everything around her. Including her daughter.

Rayla's mother had never recovered from her husband's death.

All those years ago, it was a larceny that had gone wrong. Rayla's father had placed himself in the middle of it.

Like she was there again, Rayla's eyes widened in an unfledged way. Her breathing curbed and she clutched the handle of her blades for further reassurance. Rayla stormed away before the women around her mother could recognize her, but it was too late. The memories she continually tried to bottle up began to play out in her head.

When a family friend had begun breaking the news that there had been a robbery to Rayla and her ma, Rayla had been only eight years old. Almost too young to see the world for what it truly was.

Almost.

She'd started to unconsciously put the pieces together before more words were spoken. Imagining her da sacrificing himself, unnerved and unafraid. Sure of his decision as he shot in front of the line of fire to protect someone who had no means of protecting themselves. Sure that it was the right thing to do. All those years ago, Rayla had looked up at her teary-eyed ma, knowing that they could both forgive him if that was the case.

But that wasn't what happened.

As Rayla's ma held a shaky hand to her mouth, Rayla learned the truth. Her da had died a coward. He'd been the only fatality of the robbery. Yes, he had shot out into the line of fire, but not to save the life of someone else. Instead he'd gotten caught in the crossfire because he'd tried to run. To flee the spurious danger, to save his life and only his. He'd been too scared to defend the rest of the people around him, too afraid to even hold his ground.

One of the robbers had acted without thinking. War had taught that criminal that his first reaction should always be to attack. War had taught Rayla's da that his first reaction should always be to run.

Frenzied panic had taken hold of the rest of the hostages after that. Screaming and crying, desperate and delusional, they fought back. They staggered to overwhelm the three bandits and once townsfolk and Peacekeepers caught sound of the ruckus, they were thrown behind bars.

Rayla's ma had collapsed to the ground when she learned this, heaving and crying like someone had taken the air from her lungs. In the present, late at night when sleep refused to come, Rayla still heard her ma's cries. The only remembrance of her voice she had left. Those sorrows would never be forgotten, no matter how hard Rayla fought to push them down.

Her ma had been too distraught to not allow Rayla to attend the hanging that took place the next day. Too youthful and too numb, Rayla watched the robber's feet swing for taking her da's life.

Maybe shock had enveloped Rayla the moment she'd heard that her da had been killed, and she'd never been the same. Maybe it took a murder for her to realize how heartless she truly was. But she found herself feeling shame at her father's funeral. Going so far as to feel contrition for the robbers.

Those bandits were like everyone else in District 12: they were only trying to survive. The cries and bellows that left their lips as they claimed that they had never planned to take a life forever rang between her ears. They'd never planned to kill anyone. Her da had done this to himself.

So Rayla never forgave him for it and her ma never recovered from it.

Days got longer after his death. Darker. Grief proved to be more dangerous than anything else Rayla could have feared. It glazed over her ma's eyes and demanded all of her attention, leaving Rayla alone in a lean-to that seemed far too big for two people. With her ma away inside her mind all the time, Rayla spent the coming months hungry and cold. Aching for attention. Aching for the only parent she had left.

There was no reprieve.

In the end, Rayla came to terms with the fact that her ma would never come to terms with what happened. Rayla didn't save herself, but an uncle she'd barely knew did. Her ma's brother, Runaan, stood by her side at her father's funeral. And that day, while trying to distract herself from the shame staining her cheeks, Rayla had focused all of her attention on Runaan.

"Why don't you live in town?" she had whispered to him.

Runaan gave Rayla a quizzical look. "Your mother never told you why?"

"She says that you live in the woods with the rest of your pack. Is that true? Is that why we never see ye?"

At the time, Rayla wasn't able to see that Runaan was trying to hold back laughter. "Yes, it's true that we live in the forest, but we aren't as churlish as you might think. We don't refer to ourselves as a pack, but as Kin."

"Do you accept Peacekeepers into your Kin?"

"No."

"Then how can you and your Kin live out in the woods alone? That's what ma told me, anyway. Ye all live in tents and don't have to follow the Peacekeepers' rules."

"That's not true," Runaan had said, maybe a bit too quickly and a bit too quietly. "We don't depend on the Peacekeepers and district as you and your mother do. We hunt for ourselves and sleep with the stars as our blankets. We aren't bound to District Twelve as everyone else here. Because of that, Peacekeepers don't have to . . . provide us with the safety that they provide you with."

"Couldn't I do that?" Rayla had asked, tugging on Runaan's arm. "Maybe fresh air would make ma feel better. We could live with you and your Kin until she gets better. Please? It's so borin' in town and-"

"Rayla," Runaan had snapped, his glare mirroring his sister's. Somehow Rayla had felt comfort in that, though. It had been too long since her ma had shown any emotion. Finding a familiar face in this outsider gave her a sense of comfort. Even if the expression she saw was a negative one.

"We have a different way of life. You and your mother have grown up within the district, there's no need to leave what you have. People don't _want_ to join our Kin."

"Then why did you want to join? Ye weren't born as Kin, I ken that. Ma told me stories about you two growin' up together."

"My way of life is simply different from your district's."

Rayla hadn't gotten much more information out of her uncle that day. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, Runaan had promised Rayla that he would be back soon to check on her and her ma.

A couple of months later, Runaan stopped by with enough food to last Rayla and her ma for days. Not everyone in District Twelve was this lucky, but Rayla's ma didn't seem to notice her fortune.

Rayla, however, noticed the Kin that her uncle had brought with him.

Aside from Runaan stood two other Kin, a male and a female. They all bore markings Rayla had never seen before, shades of purple streaking across their faces, each pattern different. Runaan was wearing an especially unique pattern. There was a full blue circle in the middle of his forehead and two long purple lines painted across his cheeks and nose, with the ends pointed upwards towards his eyes. Nobody else wore the color blue. He must have seen Rayla staring, because he chuckled and motioned to his face.

"I don't believe you've ever seen my emblems before," he said fondly.

"I havenae. What do they mean? Why are yours blue and purple?" Rayla had asked. Reaching up to touch her own face as if she also bore these Kins' emblems, a smile played on her lips for the first time in days.

"I am Ceannard of my Kin. People are able to see this by the blue circle above my eyes. The purple paintings you see are the ones I earned when I became Kin."

"Ceannard? Really?"

"Leader, yes," the female Kin told Rayla with a smile.

"How come I didn't know you were leader?" Rayla demanded.

"It's not important to you, Rayla. You aren't Kin. I'm not your leader."

Everything he had said was true, but his reposeful voice and dismissive words struck a nerve within Rayla. She found herself wishing she was Kin. Wishing she could learn whatever Runaan had learned to make him Ceannard. Most of all, wishing she wasn't stuck in the district, that she could have somewhere that she belonged again.

"These are a couple of my highly regarded Kin," Runaan went on, motioning to the two new strangers.

Something Rayla had noticed about Runaan's Kin was that they all had long hair. Notably Runaan. Most people in District 12 had shorter hair. Women often cut their strands at their shoulder blades so they wouldn't have to bother tying it up while they worked. Men let their beards grow out, but the hair on their head hair never went past their shoulders.

These Kin all had hair well past what was deemed as acceptable in District 12. The female's dark hair swayed at her elbows and fell short near the hem of her shirt. The male's hair hung to the base of his neck, but some strands were longer than others, reaching down to his shoulders.

Runaan's hair appeared to be the longest of them all. Rayla had disregarded this at first, but with his Kin around him, she perceived that this must be standard in his Kin. His hair was even paler than Rayla's ma's hair. Thick tendrils in the front swept below his collarbones and the rest of his hair lengthened beyond the small of his back. Rayla didn't think her ma had ever had hair that long. Nobody in District 12 did.

"Dhara, our Kin's Leas-Cheannard," Runaan said, smiling at the woman beside him. "And Tide, my husband," he continued, beckoning to the male Kin beside himself.

Rayla saw them intertwine their hands and felt a pang of grief she hadn't experienced before. Runaan and Tide gazed at each other the same way Rayla's parents had looked at each other. All esteemed and affectionate and trusting. Runaan looked so much like her ma, and Tide had a modest air about him that reminded Rayla of her da. She knew she would never see love like this blossom between her parents again. Her ma wasn't even fitted to show love to Rayla anymore.

Trying to rid herself of those revelations, Rayla glanced down at the couple's hands and frowned.

"Where are your rings?"

"Kin don't wear rings. They're often misplaced on missions," Tide responded with an amused smile. He pointed below his left collarbone. "To signify our matrimony, we mark emblems over our hearts."

Rayla saw Runaan nodding his head before he tugged his vest to the side, revealing circular purple designs covering the left of his chest.

"They're tattoos," Rayla thought aloud.

"Why, yes of course," Runaan chuckled. "Peacekeepers have allowed only Kin to bare them in District Twelve."

"How come I didn't see them on you at my da's funeral? Or any other time I've seen ye?" Rayla questioned.

"I covered them up," Runaan explained. "Not everyone in the district appreciates their meanings. I didn't want to burden you and your mother further with any tensions that might arise."

Rayla was quiet for a moment. "Does each tattoo have a different meanin'?"

All three Kin nodded. They smiled at each other before tucking tendrils of hair behind their ears, displaying their emblems clearly.

Dhara had sharply-edged patterns beneath her eyes. They reminded Rayla of triangles, pointing towards the Kin's temples. The base of them stuck out a bit, resembling the end of a rectangle.

"I'm a sharp shot with a bow and arrow," the woman said with a grin. "I make some pretty mean arrowheads as well, so my emblems resemble the shape."

Rayla found herself smiling. She turned to Tide, who had wide, broad circular patterns over his cheeks. When she looked closer, Rayla saw that they were made up of smaller circles, some of which deviated from the large circle in fine-pointed flares.

"I make stuff," Tide announced happily. "So my tattoos stray from each other, displaying my ability to create something new with what is already possessed."

"What about yours?" Rayla asked Runaan. "Aside from the blue moon on your head."

Runaan laughed at that. He ran his free hand beneath his eyes and atop the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't born Kin, so my tattoos don't represent my youth." He pointed to the streak of purple closest to his eyes, then to the thinner one below it. "Some people see two lines, but my Kin only see one."

"The wee line that the two purple bands make up?" Rayla asked.

That earned her a grin from Runaan.

Dhara comically shouldered him. "That's a smart niece you've got, Runaan," she chuckled. Rayla beamed as the woman winked at her.

"I'm not entirely sure what my emblems mean," Runaan admitted. "Perhaps the smaller one represents my life before I became Kin and the bigger one represents my life after I was accepted as Kin. Do you see how it's broader? Fuller? With my Kin, I do believe I am living my life to the fullest."

"I personally believe those two lines represent Runaan and me," Tide chimed. His eyes were bright with merriment. "The line that the two forms represents us."

"Oh," Rayla said, chuckling as if that was the genuine answer. "What do you think mine would look like?"

For the better of a second Runaan had halted, narrowing his eyes like he was visualizing an answer. But then he shook his head and smiled cautiously. "Whatever you imagine them to be, Rayla."

Sometime later, Runaan and Tide ventured to Rayla's mother. Rayla recalled hearing the Kins' voices that visit, but her ma's voice rarely sounded. Dwelling wasn't her style though, so she didn't bother to. Meanwhile, Dhara presented Rayla with a few of the arrowheads she kept in her satchel. A sense of awe circulated from Rayla as she was shown how they had been formed from thin stones. Dhara went on to tell her about the deer she had hunted, how she had stalked it and prepared the meat after she shot it.

Too soon, though, the Kin had to return to their camp. Rayla hugged them all tightly as they stood beside the doorway. Her ma only whispered her goodbyes.

"When will ye be back?" Rayla had whined.

Glancing at Runaan, Tide had smiled. "Soon, we promise."

Next time they visited, Rayla was nine and old enough to realize that when they left, she and her ma needed to go with them. Her ma was in no mind to care for herself anymore, much less Rayla. Fall was barely a month away and winter would surely kill them both. They both needed attention. Better care. More food.

Rayla spent the first couple months of her ninth year tired and fraught. Anyone who looked close enough could see that she was near her breaking point.

Night after night she would talk at her ma, rambling about things she had busied herself doing throughout the day. When she received little to no responses, Rayla would move on to whispering about her emotions. How alone she felt. Like there was something missing in her life. The hope that was dwindling inside her.

Every night her ma would stare out of the window of their lean-to, a blank expression shadowing her face. Sometimes she would look at Rayla and smile sadly, offer empty words of wisdom. More times than not, she would gather herself up and slip into bed once Rayla had run out of things to say. Hours later, Rayla would crawl into bed beside her, burrowing into her mother and wrapping her arms around herself. Her ma didn't seem to have the strength to do it herself anymore.

District 12 was not a ruthless place. Most people cared deeply for one another. They were all they had. If that hadn't been the case, Rayla and her ma surely would have lost their home within the first month of Rayla's da's death. But people saw how much the surviving family was struggling. They helped in the only ways they could afford: keeping a roof above their heads. Nobody could spare enough food or clothing, though. And medicine was a blessing that Rayla's family had rarely ever received.

As her ma's mind faded, Rayla felt herself growing weak.

Weak due to the emotional turmoil that she had to endure every day, but especially weak because of the lack of nutrients given to her. At night, to calm her stomach, she would drink as much water as she was able to get ahold of. Feigning the feeling of being full, Rayla would only then be able to drift off into sleep. In the mornings she would get up solely because it was her job to get her mother up. Routine was all she could depend on.

Rayla's head would be cloudy for a majority of the day. Her hands and feet went numb often and most of her movements appeared sedated, absent of vitality. It wasn't worth it to make the trek outside anymore. The sun's rays could warm her from inside her home. Nothing more was needed. Nothing more could be endowed.

Not until Runaan's second visit, at least.

In spite of being family, Runaan had a routine of knocking on the door of Rayla's home and waiting for someone to let him in before entering. Maybe he wasn't used to anything but tents, Rayla had figured. Nobody else in the district bothered to knock. They just walked in.

It took the better of a minute for Rayla to drag herself out of bed and stumble to the door. Scarcity of food made her depth perception faint. Through the dark spots swarming her vision, everything looked one-dimensional and blurry. But the moment she saw Runaan, her world grew bright again.

"Runaan! Tide!" she cried happily. As they walked through the doorway, Rayla poked her head between them and pouted. "Where's Dhara?"

When she glanced back up at her uncles, she saw them both frowning at her.

"What?"

"Dhara's leading a hunt," Runaan told her. He crouched down to her level while Tide closed the door behind them. "You're not looking too good, Rayla. Where's your mother?"

"In bed still, see?" She pointed to the bundle of blankets atop their mattress. Runaan slipped one of his satchels off of his shoulder and handed it to Tide before making his way to his sister.

"Hungry?" Tide had asked, opening the satchel and pulling out fruits that Rayla seldom saw. "We brought some food. Not as much as last time, I'm afraid."

"That's okay!" Rayla chirped, peering into Tide's hands. "Blueberries? Strawberries?" the girl speculated. "Can I have some?"

"Of course!" Tide laughed, pouring a handful into her grasp.

Rare, sweet and summery flavors burst over her tongue at the first bite. Juice dribbled down her chin and seeds wedged between her teeth but Rayla didn't mind. Giggles ensued when she saw that Tide had looked the same as her.

"Is there more?" Rayla couldn't help but ask.

"Vegetables," Tide answered while rummaging through the satchel. "You like carrots right?"

"A lot!"

The following stretch of time was spent with Rayla and Tide sprawled out amongst more food than Rayla had eaten in days. Rayla ate until she nearly bloated, forcing Tide to pace her to the best of his ability.

"Rayla?"

Rayla turned to her ma's voice and simpered when she saw her standing beside Runaan. "Aye, ma?"

"Go play outside for a bit. Your uncles and I need to talk."

Before she could respond, Tide handed Rayla the satchel and smiled in a heartening manner, shooing her out the door.

Inside the satchel was a vile of vibrant colored juice, small loaves of bread, seasoned jerky, and more herbs that Rayla could name. She sampled everything but the herbs. Beyond the nutriments were trinkets that Rayla hadn't seen before.

Most of them appeared to be children's toys. There was a small wooden horse with wheels instead of hooves, a round rock with markings on it that made it resemble a bird, and a doll made out of cornhusks. Even a slingshot, one of Dhara's arrowheads, and tiny, people-shaped figurines could be found at the very bottom of the duffel. She spread everything out on the dirt road in front of her home and busied herself with play until Tide called her back inside.

Her mother was sitting on one of the chairs in the kitchen and Runaan was seated beside her. Her ma's expression was unreadable, but it wasn't blank, for once. Rayla grinned and clambered over to her, crawling onto her lap and showing her Dhara's arrowhead from the satchel. Everyone else was quiet, though. Only Tide smiled at her, and after a fleeting moment, it receded into a worried frown in her mother's direction.

"Rayla," Runaan began gently. "You have expressed thoughts of becoming Kin before. If you were given the chance, would you take it?"

Rayla wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly. She looked up at her ma, who was staring straight ahead. Her jaw was set and her hands were at her sides, resting on the seat of her chair instead of on Rayla.

"I'd really like to," Rayla admitted. There was a long pause before Rayla said what everyone was thinking. "Would ma come with, too?"

Another pause.

"No," Runaan said, barely a whisper. "It's better for her here."

"Yes, Rayla," Rayla heard her ma say. "It's time for you to go."

"Go?" Rayla echoed. She was staring up at her ma now, but again, derived no reprieve. "I don't want to leave ye, ma. I don't want to leave if that's-"

"You must," was all her mother said. Her voice was flat. "You know it's better this way."

She had moved her hands to Rayla's shoulders then, squeezing her arms gently and then guiding her to the floor. Rayla's ma stood up and gathered a small heap of Rayla's clothes from the bed, piling them into a satchel that Runaan was holding open.

"I dinnae care if it's better this way, though," Rayla pronounced. Tide made his way over to her, standing beside Rayla as a wordless act of solace. Her mother didn't seem to hear her. "Ma? _Ma!_ I dinnae want to leave. Why can't ye come with me?"

"Rayla," her ma had all but hissed, whipping around and staring at her daughter with an expression Rayla couldn't read. "You know better than this. Go with your uncles. Now."

So Rayla had obeyed. Too youthful and too numb, lacking the understanding as to why she was leaving without her ma and lacking the goodbye from her mother she had hoped for, Rayla obeyed. When her ma made it clear that emotions still would not be shown on her end, Rayla stormed off and didn't look back.

That was the day she realized that both of her parents were cowards.

That day she decided she would never look back again.

So now, nearly seven years later, Rayla was all but fuming as she ambled further into her old town. Furious that she had allowed her mind to wander this far. Distraught that she couldn't just forget about that part of her life.

Because she couldn't afford to keep reliving her youth every time it crossed her mind.

Her mission was top priority now. Her Kin needed her. Runaan needed her now more than ever.

Rayla couldn't look back anymore. Not now, not at a time like this.


	3. An Unnamed Sickness - Rayla

Rayla had adapted to Kin culture quite well. Part of her felt like she should have born into it.

At the age of nine, she abandoned most of what she had learned from her ma and da. No more dusting household items, bowing to Peacekeepers, or baking was needed in her new home. Instead, Rayla learned how to hunt, prepare fresh kill, identify and use the forest's plants, care for herself and others in a medical viewpoint, and provide for the Kin that accepted her as one of their own. By the time she was ten, Rayla had effectively convinced Runaan and Tide to let her learn self-defense, and later fighting techniques, alongside her daily work.

There was no time to grieve in a place like this. Perhaps that was what Rayla favored most about becoming Kin. The choice to visit her ma was always present, but Rayla continuously refused, until neither of her uncles bothered to ask about it.

This led Runaan and Tide to step up, taking the place of Rayla's parents and providing her with everything she had been denied.

Rayla's new home was the largest shelter of the Kin: a tent with overlapping, blue-stained canvases made for the Ceannard. Remaining tents were the same shade of purple that marked the Kins' faces. Everyone's homes acted as a barrier around the heart of their camp, where Kin like Tide would exhaust their time forging weapons and other contraptions that enhanced their way of life.

Rayla didn't mind waking at dawn every day to the clinking noises that ramified from Tide as he worked. She soon learned that he acted as the alarm for everyone and that the _tink tink tink_ that roused people from their sleep had earned him the nickname "Tinker" around camp.

Two days out of the week were spent rising with "Tinker" to practice manufacturing weapons as he did, while the afternoons were busied with him showing Rayla how to pinpoint the different uses of plants in the forest. (Although Rayla often hung around him whenever she had free time.) A couple of days were spent with Runaan teaching Rayla how to spar and tend to illnesses and injuries, and two more were spent under Dhara's watchful eye as she taught Rayla how to hunt, track, and trap. One day out of the week was what Rayla called the Kins' Sabbath. That day everyone would remain in camp socializing and constructing plans for the upcoming week.

In time, Rayla learned to disregard her former upbringing. She no longer considered herself a girl from District 12, but as Kin. Five years passed easily. Before she turned 14, it was unanimously decided that she had proven herself enough. That summer she earned her emblems and became true Kin.

"What do you think my emblems will look like?" Rayla had asked, and Runaan felt his attention wane back to all those years ago to when she had asked the same question. He and Tide had smiled at each other, looking to Rayla.

"They will represent you," Runaan had told her.

"Kind and good," came from Tide.

"Fearless and strong," Runaan went on.

"Daring," Rayla breathed.

"They will envision all of this," Runaan had declared with a grin.

* * *

"They're tear-streaks," was all Rayla said when she saw her emblems for the first time.

In a way, she wasn't the least bit wrong. Slanted, mirroring triangular shades of purple bled down the undersides of her eyes as if she'd been weeping. She had traced them with the tips of her fingers and a frown.

"I've never even shed a tear in front of our Kin," she continued numbly. "Why will it look like I've cried for the rest of my life?"

"You're smarter than that, Rayla," Runaan had scolded gently. Tide had smiled at her, pointing to one of her emblems and reading his husband's mind aloud.

"Can't you see how fierce they are? Your emblems are fearless and strong, just like you. Sharp as blades and raw as tears."

"Like . . . me?"

"Like you, Rayla," Runaan had told her.

* * *

Things continued to go in the Kins' favor for years to follow. But shortly after Rayla's fifteenth birthday, Runaan was no longer able to continue as Ceannard of his Kin.

It was a hunting mission that had gone wrong.

Winter yielded sparse chances to eat for everyone in District 12. By the time spring came, most people's bones grew visible beneath their skin. That winter was no different.

So Runaan's Kin had grown audacious when tracking a buck in the forest. Even the Ceannard had grown fraught. He'd stumbled, of all things. He'd tripped while leading his Kin, cried out as he fell, and scared away any chances of hitting the buck. But his Kin could not afford to be resentful towards their Ceannard, because Runaan hadn't quit crying out after he hit the ground. Strained bellows filtered into the air at an unnatural pace.

As if he had fallen from a great height, Runaan's left hip dislocated violently when he met the ground. Different levels of agony ran together in his mind while his Kin struggled to pick him up and bring him back to camp. The Kin with the most medical experience managed to set his injury without any major complications.

For the long days that followed, things were looking up. But when he tried walking, Rayla was benumbed to see that he was limping. Many of the Kin reassured her that this was a common factor of a dislocated hip. Yet weeks passed and his limp never recovered, nor did the pain skewering down his leg. Rayla heard Kin call the pain Runaan was feeling "arthritis."

_Don't only elderly people get that?_

No matter who was at the prevailing age to experience arthritis, Runaan fell ill to the pain that never ceased. Some months passed and it was pronounced that he would never fully heal. Standing guard before his Kins' camp was then all he was able to do. Hunting, sparring, even walking through the woods to gather herbs, all evinced to be too much for Runaan.

Arthritis wasn't the only thing jeopardizing him, though. Ever since his accident, his charisma seemed to be dwindling. The notion to fight, to protect his Kin, no longer shone vibrantly in his eyes. All of his sense of hope appeared to be eradicated the moment he realized he'd forever walk with a limp. Depression hit him with as great a force as Rayla's ma had been struck with.

Dhara took over the roles of Ceannard without adopting the title. Not until Runaan was ready at least, which didn't take long.

Dhara's Ceannard emblem ceremony was solemn. Despite Rayla anticipating the jubilation of watching the ceremony that she wished to have for herself one day, she couldn't conjure up anything more than contentment for her new Ceannard.

That day Runaan was more alive than he had previously been letting on, though. A smile tweaked his lips and he opened his mouth to say more than he had said since he'd begun limping. It stonewalled Rayla. If he was able to gather up bliss and energy for someone to take his title, why couldn't he gather up the ferocity he used to have for his Kin?

Her hindrance was in vain, though. After the ceremony he returned to his sullen state. Things got better in the camp as the middle of summer was nearing, but Runaan's state of mind got worse. His pain was intensifying and his outward emotions were waning.

When the moon hung high in the sky at night, Rayla wondered if this happened to everyone in her family. If it would happen to her in the future. Her mother had lost her husband and then her mind, now her uncle had lost his title and his mind was following. There was no place left for her to go. She couldn't run away again. She had to help Runaan. She had to help her Kin.

District 12 was the valedictory district for a reason. Access to proper housing and food was hard to come by. Access to medicine was even rarer. Unheard of in most of District 12's makeshift neighborhoods. Superior districts were favored enough to obtain most things that Rayla's district couldn't get ahold of. Perhaps there was medicine in those districts that would help Runaan. Maybe it would've helped her ma, too, but Rayla tried not to think about that.

While she strived to divert herself from her shambling home life, Rayla directed her attention to work and strategies. She couldn't let Runaan fall down the hole her ma had fallen into. She believed he wouldn't make it another fall.

As her uncles had done for her, Rayla stepped up for them. With the skills and knowledge from the former Ceannard and current Ceannard she had attained, Rayla busied herself and built upon her strength. Leading hunts, training other Kin how to hold their own through sparring and self-defense, and rising with Tide to contrive effective weapons, among other things, was Rayla's new life. As she approached her sixteenth birthday, Dhara and her Kin saw the makings that burned through her.

Ki'somma, a boy about five years older than Rayla, was granted the title of Leas-Cheannard, though.

It nearly knocked Rayla down. Throughout the ceremony she tried to feign happiness and pride for her new Leas-Cheannard, but Tide and Dhara could see through her act. It was little more than an act, too. Rayla knew that she couldn't let this loss take her mind as it had her mother's and uncle's.

The day after the ceremony Dhara called Tide, Rayla, and Ki'somma into her hut. It was built on the grounds to the left of Runaan's hut, so the former Ceannard would be seen as Dhara's right-hand man, even through his lasting hardships. Runaan's canvases were no longer blue, though.

"Understand that I am wary but that I am not blind, Rayla," Dhara had told her.

Thinking she understood but wanting to make sure, Rayla had raised an eyebrow in question.

"I have seen what you are capable of. I have seen that your heart beats solely for our Kin," Dhara went on.

Rayla felt a familiar hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Tide smiling at her. His expression was bittersweet. "Everyone has, Rayla," he whispered.

"Runaan," Dhara said slowly, as if he was in the room with them. For a fraction of a second she trailed off. "He needs you, Rayla. Being Leas-Cheannard is dangerous. If something happened to you, nobody would forgive me. I would not be able to forgive myself." She stepped closer to Rayla, her smile mirroring Tide's. "But know that I have seen you. Know that now, your training for Leas-Cheannard begins."

"What?"

_Is that a thing? Leas-Cheannard training?_

Dhara beckoned Ki'somma, who was suddenly at Rayla's left. He gazed at her with respect and furor altering the features on his face.

"In the case that something happens to me, Ki'somma will take my place and you will then become Leas-Cheannard. This is only the least I can do, Rayla." Before Rayla could speak, Dhara continued. "Until that day comes, you will be learning the dues of his title alongside him. When the day comes, you will be prepared to take his place.

"In all respects."

Rayla's heart nearly burst on the spot. She looked to her Kin, grinning more than she had in months. Everyone in Dhara's tent broke out into smiles.

So she trained alongside Ki'somma for weeks, learning the roles he was adopting, heeding the responsibilities he took. Everything was split evenly between them. Ki'somma was the sole owner of his title, but Rayla didn't mind. Her newfound knowledge kept her busy. And when she had completed the day's work, the plan to get Runaan back to himself occupied every corner of her mind.

She trained harder than Ki'somma in some instances. Pushing her endurance by running multiple miles at a time and reducing her recovery time between drills. She sparred more than anyone else in camp. Between tasks, she ventured out into the woods and resided there, collecting herbs and sharpening arrowheads until she was summoned back to camp. There was never a day where she ran less than five miles in her spare time. Nobody questioned her actions, though. She was still pulling her weight as much as Ki'somma, even more in some respects, so she wasn't jeopardizing her Kin in any way. Independence was simply something she was learning to favor. There was nothing wrong with that, especially for someone in line to be Ceannard. Rayla knew she had to learn to trust herself again.

Only when she told Dhara that she would need a handful of days off in the future, did her Ceannard and Leas-Cheannard start truly questioning her eudaemonia.

"When, Rayla?" Dhara had asked her with a crease in her forehead.

"Whenever it becomes a possibility. Our Kin comes first, I know that. I just need a few days, is all. Five at the most. With Runaan bein' unable to even stand guard and Tinker, er, Tide, havin' to cut back on his work in order to take care of him, I need to be there for them. They need the extra help, Dhara, just until we figure out what to do. It won't take long."

"I'd be happy to give you time to help them," Ki'somma told her gently. "They do need you."

"Yes, they do," Dhara agreed quietly. "If your position is proving to be too much for you-"

"It's not," Rayla interjected. "I still want my role. This is my place and I don't intend to lose it."

"Alright. After your next hunt, you may tend to your Kin."

Rayla had thanked Dhara gratefully before slipping out of her tent and making her way into the trees that surrounded the camp. Footsteps sounded behind her though, and she turned around to see Ki'somma shadowing her.

"I'm sorry about, you know-"

"It's fine," Rayla had said, cutting him off. Ki'somma was used to her defensive demeanor at that point, though. Her terse receptions no longer phased him.

"Will Tide's apprentice officially take over his job, now?"

"I don't know, but that's what I'm tryin' to prevent. We'll see what I can do."

Ki'somma dipped his head and Rayla smiled at him before starting her evening run. He knew better than to follow her any farther.

When the day came for Rayla's "break," she woke to tend to Runaan while Tide prepared a satiating meal for them. Venison, sweet potatoes, pinto beans, and valerian tea covered their table by noon. Runaan did what he did every meal: barely touched his food.

He spared a lot of his words those days. Most of the time he was in his head, fully aware of what he was putting Tide and Rayla through. The realization of this only threatened his state of being further, though. Guilt followed his every thought. Late at night he would talk to Tide and confide in him quietly. Always when Rayla was sleeping, or believed to be asleep.

While Runaan's condition worsened, Tide was forced to abandon most of his days as a makeshift engineer and focus his attention on his husband instead. It didn't help as much as it should have. Rayla noticed this.

After the meal, Rayla announced that she was planning to go out for a while. She told Tide to not wait up for her, that she was going to collect greeneries that grew deep in the forest. Tide believed that she was going to look for plants that would help lessen Runaan's pain, so he smiled and let her go, telling her to take her time.

She planned to do just that, which is what landed her in her current footing: venturing into her old hometown. Her old life. The sight of her ma had honestly scared her. Even if her mother saw her, Rayla didn't think it would register in her mind that it was Rayla, her daughter, before her. Was Runaan going to get that bad?

_No._

She shook her head. She couldn't let that happen.

Other districts could help. Beyond 12, Rayla could find what she needed to save Runaan. She could save Tide in turn. This time she would do something to save her family.

District 11 wasn't too different from District 12, aside from harsher Peacekeepers. Almost equally as little supplies and medicine were there. District 10 was the same as 11 in terms of Peacekeepers, which meant better-controlled people. They also had better medicine, but Rayla knew she couldn't chance getting caught by anyone in that district.

Which left District 9. Higher-up districts would undoubtedly discern Rayla's lack of appropriate clothing and etiquette. It was foolish of her to think that she could pretend to fit into any district beyond 9. Besides, District 9 was near perfect. There were rumors of a coalition there. That was one of the few districts that had stronger or equally-as-strong people as their Peacekeepers. A rarity. They would surely have medicine, along with Peacekeepers more concerned about a coalition rather than a stray girl scouring the town.

District 9 was about two day's run if Rayla pushed herself. And already, adrenaline was chasing her every heartbeat, so she knew it would be effortless to do just that. She planned to run at night and rest when the sun was high.

As evening was approaching, Rayla departed from her hometown and worked her way to the edge of her district's border. Without glancing behind herself, she fled into District 11's territory and stayed beneath the canopy of trees that concealed her.

District 12 had a substantial amount of territory, but it was nothing compared to the land that Rayla was now running through. Her Kin had harvested crops that provided enough food to last themselves winter, but District 11 harvested the crops that would provide every district with enough food all year long. It was going to be a long run, but at least she could snatch the season's growths that were edible. She waited until night fell, though, as Peacekeepers watched District 11's people far too closely in order to ensure that they didn't take anything from the fields for themselves.

Rayla rested until the sun dipped below the horizon and the Peacekeepers and people went back to their homes. Then she ran until she reached District 10, finding shelter to sleep in when she saw dawn's light. District 10 raised livestock and autumn was yet to approach, so there were lots of pastures where cattle were left unguarded. Rayla hastened through these pastures in the late afternoon, unable to keep still until darkness washed over the sky. She made it to District 9 that evening.

The many trees that she had taken refuge in were thinning at an alarming rate when she crossed into the new territory. She had no choice but to simply throw on her hood while she prowled farther into the region, abandoning her native cover.

In all honesty, Rayla didn't know where she was going, so she stalked the streets that had been eroded substantially until she found her way into a town larger than the one she'd grown up in. By now it was night, which led her to stick to the shadows and clutch the twin blades that Tide had made for her.

Something caught her eye, though. Stemming off the populated town was a neighborhood of shanties. Lean-tos that were similar to the one she'd grown up in. There were more than a handful of shanties with light flickering inside them. Maybe there wasn't an enforced curfew on that side of the town. Deciding that that was the case, Rayla made her way over there, elated when she spotted an extensive building with scattered lights inside. When she worked her way to the face of it, she was astonished to see that it wasn't a school, but a medical bay of sorts. The word "Infirmary" was painted across the front of the building.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she located the back door, thankful that it didn't alert anyone while she opened it. To her right there was a hallway that had various closed doors, but to her left was a hallway with sporadic, predominantly open doorways. She snuck down that hallway, keeping to the wall and peering into every doorway until she found a room with cupboards, hutches, and shelves overlaid in containers of pills. Silently, Rayla slipped inside and whispered a thanks that a majority of the windows in the building weren't covered, as the moonlight provided her with enough luminescence to see if she squinted her eyes. She slid her satchel to the front of her and lifted the covering, seizing bottles and trying to make out the prescription names.

Slow footsteps made their way to her, though. Clumsy and unmeasured ones. For once, Rayla was thankful that when Ki'somma followed her, he at least tried to be quiet. She looked around the room but found nowhere to hide. Fear didn't eat away at her, though - her temper replaced any trace of that emotion. She was so close. Too close. For all she knew, she could have Runaan's medicine in her hands, but now it could be taken away from her. It would make too much noise to dump the bottle in her satchel, so she placed it back on the shelves above her. Maybe this stranger wouldn't think she was stealing if her hands were empty.

As the footsteps halted, Rayla tightened her jaw.

"What are you doing back here?"

A soft breath blew past her lips while she unclenched her jaw. Rayla closed her eyes and turned around to face the voice. In spite of her waxing ire, she hoisted her hands and lifted her eyelids to see a boy around her age standing in the doorway.

His voice was nothing like his stance. Where a resentful, short tone left him, the way he stood told a different story. Dark brown hair fell past his forehead in a boyish way and his chin was tilted downward as if he didn't have enough strength to keep it upright. Something was shimmering in his gaze. When she looked closer, Rayla saw clashes of red and gray encircling the skin around his eyes. He had been crying. His green eyes were still gleaming with tears.

At this realization, Rayla lessened her stance, ordering herself to take up less space so she stood as less of a threat.

"Someone is sick. He needs aid."

"Well, why don't you just bring him here?" the boy demanded shortly. He sniffled, glaring at Rayla.

Heartbeats passed and when Rayla allowed her hood to fall, it dawned on him.

This stranger was shorter than her, not in the right headspace to defend himself properly, and more than likely didn't have any savvy aside from harvesting grain, as was most of District 9's people. Rayla was the real threat here. The boy heeded this when he saw her emblems.

"You're not from District Nine." He rooted his stance, squaring his shoulders and knitting his eyebrows together. Both of his hands curled to shaky fists at his sides. "Get out."

"No," Rayla growled, and then shook her head, trying to rid her voice of malice, holding her hands up again. Her palms were facing the stranger, urging him to trust her, showing him that she wouldn't be the first one to attack. "No, I can't. My uncle needs help. He's sick and he's not goin' to get better without medicine. Medicine that my district does no' have."

The boy thought this over for a fleeting second. "We have sick people here, too."

"Is that why you're here?" Rayla questioned, hoping to knock him off guard. It worked.

The stranger receded back against the doorway, slouching slightly against the frame and looking at Rayla with a bewildered expression. As if he'd never been sick before. "What? N-no, that's not why I'm here."

Rayla dipped her head, figuring it was best not to press.

"Why is your uncle sick?"

In the boy's tone there was a blend of valid questioning and hostility.

"Hunting accident," Rayla told him, void of any emotion he might be looking for. "He's got a limp now, somethin' that won't get better."

She waited a moment, feeling the force of the stranger wanting to interrupt her. Wanting to tell her that medicine would not fix a limp. But she knew this, and rushed her next words.

"I think he's gettin' sick because of it. He cannot hunt or fight anymore - he can't even stand guard to protect our Kin. He thinks he's feckless, so maybe his mind is allowin' him to fall ill. Maybe he's not fightin' back like he knows he should. But I need to help him, I need to try."

The stranger simply stared at her.

"I wasn't plannin' on taking all of the medicine. Just enough for him."

"Okay," the boy said.

Something about him had dwindled in the time Rayla had spoken. Something told her that she couldn't take the medicine and leave now, like she'd planned. He hadn't promised to help her, but he hadn't outed her, either. There was a reason he was here. He deserved something in return.

"Are you sick?" she asked softly, lowering her hands.

"No." A pause. "My stepdad is."

Rayla hadn't really expected an answer, and she didn't have to look at him to know that he was avoiding her gaze because of it.

"He was injured." The boy paused long enough for their faces to fall in line with each other. Pain was flaring in his eyes. Pain that Rayla found familiar.

"He's not going to get better. Even with medicine."

"I'm sorry," she breathed without thinking. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch his arm. She understood his pain. This fear was always in the back of her mind, whispering beneath her consciousness, threatening Runaan.

"My younger brother doesn't know. I mean, he doesn't know that he's not going to get better. We were both there when my stepdad got hurt. But I don't know how to tell him, how to tell him that he's not going to make it."

Rayla nodded throughout the stranger's stammering. Demurral was evident in every feature of his face, every inflection that arose in his voice.

Rayla had always been the youngest of her Kin. She'd never needed to break news like this to anyone who hadn't suffered it before. Ever since her da had died, people were the ones tiptoeing around her. Not the other way around.

"How was he hurt?"

The stranger found her gaze again. Tears no longer blurred his eyes but his expression was too solemn for a boy his age. "My family's coalition. Brigands attacked our home and Amaya and my . . . dad were the ones leading the retaliation. He was stabbed. Medics were able to stop the bleeding but they think the wound got infected not long after. He's so sick. Everyone can see that his days are numbered now."

Fire seemed to be lapping at Rayla's face. She thought she could relate to this boy but she was wrong. She couldn't have been more wrong.

His stepfather was dying a hero. He was protecting his home, his family. _His coalition_, the people he devoted his life to fighting for.

Rayla was once again reminded that her da had died a coward. He was nothing compared to this stranger's stepfather.

She backed up, feeling trapped. She couldn't be here anymore.

"My brother is with our aunt. I'm supposed to be there too, but people are saying that this is dad's last night. He won't make it through tomorrow."

Rayla turned around, her back facing the stranger, her hands reaching for a bottle of pills that Runaan needed. Antibiotics. The cure-all. Runaan's last chance to recover. They would strengthen his body and Rayla could only hope that his mind would strengthen in sequence. She slipped the bottle into her satchel and bowed her head.

"I wish I could help," she whispered through clenched teeth.

"I wish I could do something," the boy longed.

Rayla nodded, willing herself to turn around, willing herself to look back at the boy whose life she wished she had. "Thank ye."

The boy frowned at her words, eyes going a bit wider than before. "You're leaving."

"Aye," she said simply. "I have to."

"Your uncle," he started. His expression fell and he crossed the floor. Rayla had to sidestep in order to avoid him walking into her. There was a numbness to his movements, a blankness to his face while he reached into the cupboard and took out another bottle of antibiotics. He utilized an aimed firmness when unscrewing the cap, and then pointed to Rayla's satchel. Wordlessly, she took her own bottle out and fumbled, unable to open it.

"It's supposed to be that way," he explained, "so children can't get into it."

He looked at her and motioned for her to point the cap towards him. Rayla's fingers were wound around the base of the bottle but in a dazed fashion, the boy grabbed the bottle himself, his hand on hers. While she held her breath - narrowing her eyes and refusing to let go in fear of him taking the pills from her - he pressed down on the cap with his other hand and twisted, effectively showing her how to open it. Once the cap was off, his fingers uncurled from hers and he backed away.

Rayla's face was hot again, and she was inwardly cursing these child-proof bottles. This stranger probably thought she was so uncivilized that she didn't even know how to open a bottle. Which wasn't true. She'd just never seen a _bottle_ be so intricate before.

The stranger poured a majority of the pills from his bottle into Rayla's. There was a label on the bottle he had grabbed. Rayla could make out the name "Harrow." She found the boy staring at the bottle in her hands and when she turned it towards her, the name "Harrow" appeared again.

"For your coalition," the boy told her.

Rayla screwed the cap back on gratefully, implementing the same firmness she had seen before. Her actions were slow. She gave him a half-hearted smile. "My Kin."

The boy reddened a bit, perhaps embarrassed. Though nowhere near as embarrassed as Rayla found herself to be. How could she be so happy to take someone's pity? Especially a stranger's?

"Your Kin," he corrected softly.

They stared at each other for suspended seconds. Maybe perceiving how akin they really were. Imagining each other in the opposite places, with the opposite roles. What could have been, had it not been for their families. Had it not been for their districts. How better or worse they would have been without those vital things.

But then Rayla recalled that this boy's stepfather was dying in one of these rooms. Dying as a hero, not a coward.

With that remembrance, she exhaled. Both teenagers were standing close enough so that when Rayla's breath wafted over the boy's face, his eyes fell shut in response.

When he opened them, his stranger was gone.


	4. Losses and Promises - Callum

Hours after his stranger left, Callum was orphaned.

Loss was proving to call out the color in the room as sunlight made itself present. Everything was too vivid for Callum, though, too glaring. He didn't understand how it could be so sunlit out. It should have been overcast. Raining and storming. The heavens ought to have been grieving alongside him at a time like this, but they weren't. Outside, the Coalition's children were basking in the warmth, playing games and yelling happily. Some parents watched them with clasped hands and soft smiles. Life continued to endure, which was maybe the hardest thing for Callum to face.

Callum narrowed his eyes against the brightness and shifted his focus back to who was slipping away before him. Although Harrow was engrossed with Amaya and Gren for the time being. They were all conferring on what would become of the Coalition now. It didn't concern Callum as much as it should have, so he turned his attention to the previous night. To the stranger he'd met in the dark.

There was a rush of regret and longing when he discerned that he'd never learned her name. She never learned his either, though. Perhaps she would feel the same way when she realized this.

Callum had met people like her throughout his life. Fierce and fearful and daring. Doing the wrong things for the right reasons was a prevalent theme in the Coalition. But there was something more about her that called out to him.

Maybe it was the formidable markings on her face. It could have been the color of pearls that made up her hair or the shadows of purple that glinted in her eyes. Her accent had been something Callum had never heard before. Her garbs and adornments didn't appear mundane.

Nothing about her rang familiar, but he felt a sense of . . . soundness when he had been with her. Like they could talk for hours without having to fret over sharing too much. Something told him that, given another chance, they could talk from dusk until dawn without stopping. He wanted to know everything about her.

Distantly though, Callum wondered if he was just lonely. Looking for someone to confide in, perhaps. Maybe she would have listened more if she'd had the time. Maybe he could've listened to her, too.

He shook his mind from that route, and ciphered that her markings were tattoos, though he didn't know how that was. They weren't permitted within the lower districts. Had she originally hailed from one of the top districts? No matter the story of her upbringing, she was now in a district that was lower than his, judging by the fact that she wasn't able to salvage the medicine she needed for her uncle.

Because of this, Callum knew that he would never see her again. She wasn't from his district, which was bad enough, but she wasn't like him at all. She was marked with illegal ink and had a name that Callum never caught. There was no doubt that she'd been concealing weapons beneath her attire and that he had most likely been the only one who'd seen or talked to her. Nobody would believe him if he'd said anything about her. It was fun to dream, though. Distracting.

Until Harrow beckoned Callum from the corner of the room. Gren, someone who held the title of lieutenant and peacekeeper, departed, saying something along the lines of learning how to take care of the Coalition as well as its leaders already do. Amaya followed him and closed the door behind herself, remaining in the hallway. Callum could hear her planting her feet firmly on the ground and the sound of her armor clattering as she folded her arms.

For a long while Harrow didn't say anything. His distracted gaze rested in front of him before finding Callum. A smile took form but pain was evident in the meager motion.

"Callum" he rumbled. He patted the side of the bed, as if urging his stepson to sit, but Callum only stepped closer. The wool blankets against his legs acted as an anchor of sorts.

Memories of Harrow telling Callum to sit down before he learned about his mother's death marched through his mind. If he sat down now, history would be sure to repeat itself.

"We're lucky that we have time. There are things I need to tell you."

Even though Callum knew that this was why everyone else in the room cleared out, hearing the words made his heart sink. He didn't want to listen to anything Harrow had to say. He didn't want to say goodbye after the last words were spoken.

Callum nodded in response.

"We didn't have the chance before."

Harrow spoke slowly and his eyes fell from Callum's. An aching memory took hold of both of their emotions.

"The last time I saw your mother she said 'I will see you on the other side'. It wasn't meant to be the farewell that it turned out to be."

A shaky breath.

"I don't know what lies on the other side, but I do know that I will be watching over you and your brother forevermore. Your mother has already long since been keeping us safe. My place will now be beside her, keeping our children and our Coalition safe, as it always was."

Callum shifted closer to his stepfather, grief blossoming inside him faster now.

Harrow's mien went serious and tender.

"Callum, I know I'm not your birth father, but in my eyes and in my heart, you are my son. I see myself in you, I'm proud of you, and I love you unconditionally."

Callum's mouth went dry. He began to shake his head, squinting as tears threatened to fall. He wanted to utter Harrow's name but he couldn't find his voice. Harrow lifted a hand and Callum took it without hesitating.

"Dad . . ."

"I need you to be strong, Callum. Be strong for Ezran and everyone else who looks up to you. You have it in you. You're capable of more than you know."

Callum merely nodded, focusing on his breathing, counting the seconds of every inhale and exhale.

"I have found true strength, my son. I wish to pass it down to you and Ezran. Callum, do you know what true strength is?"

"What you and Amaya do," Callum replied quietly. "Protecting people who need it. It gives them the strength they need to do the same."

An illustrious visage yielded from Harrow as he nodded, mumbling his agreement. "History is a narrative of strength, as people say. But what they see isn't strength - it is power. True strength is found in vulnerability, forgiveness, and love, Callum."

Harrow squeezed Callum's hand with fleeting strength.

"The purest strength appears as weakness to those who don't know better. For a long time, I didn't know better." He forced a chuckle, though Callum could see that he was using it as a distraction to catch his breath. "You must reject history as a narrative of false strength, and instead have faith that it can be a narrative of love. A narrative of the purest strength. Free yourself and your brother. Create a brighter future. I want you and Ezran to break free from the chains of history and its ideal strength. Can you do that, Callum?"

To say that Callum's mind was whirling would be an understatement. If time could slow only for a moment, he could write down Harrow's words. He could draw what they meant. He could take ink to paper and tell the Coalition their leader's final wish.

But life was not this granting.

Harrow's breathing was growing labored. Outside of the room, Amaya was twisting the doorknob.

"I can, dad." Callum fought to square his shoulders. "I will, for you. For Ezran and our Coalition. I promise."

* * *

Harrow died with Amaya at his right hand and Callum at his left. Ezran was not permitted to be present in the room when his father's time finally arrived. Callum willed himself to believe that his younger brother didn't yet know what was happening.

"I do not know how well Ezran remembers Sarai," Harrow had admitted to Callum quietly. "For the betterment or the detriment, he will remember me more than he will remember her. I cannot let him believe that everyone he loves will die. He cannot see me like this. You are each other's strengths now, Callum. He will draw upon you for strength rather than me, because you will be there for him. You will teach him true strength, like I have taught you."

As Harrow's last breath left him, the softest smile crossed his face. Eyes alight, directed upwards, his body untensed. Perhaps Callum was already grief-stricken, but he thought he saw Harrow's lips begin to move. To form a name that began with 's'.

But he would never be sure.

Amaya was the one to announce Harrow's demise to the Coalition, but Callum had taken Ezran aside beforehand. His late leader's words continued to ring in his mind, and Callum knew that he was drawing upon the strength that Harrow had given him as he spoke to Ezran. Once the news had been passed, Callum dwelled on Harrow's definition of strength. The strength that was blinding him. The vulnerability that both brothers would face now, the forgiveness that Ezran would need to find for Harrow, and the love that would somehow continue to prevail.

At the sight of Ezran's lower lip beginning to tremble and his hands following in suit, though, Callum fell to his knees and embraced the boy with no means to let him go. Colors before him blurred and the outlines of shapes melded together.

Ezran didn't seem to have the pith to hang on to Callum. There were tears flooding his eyes but desisting to fall. He wasn't continuously talking, but his voice was quiet and unsure.

"Mom . . ." he said with enough realization to make Callum start to shake.

The eldest brother shook his head in spite of himself, but Ezran went on.

"He's gone. Just like mom."

"No," Callum whispered. While trying to ignore the sobs that racked his body, Callum lost his breath. He couldn't lose himself, he told himself. Like his stranger's uncle, he couldn't let his mind fade away when someone was still depending on him.

"We still have Amaya." Callum parted far enough from Ezran for their eyes to meet. "We still have each other."

Ezran couldn't respond. He shut his eyes and wound his arms around Callum, finding the strength to hold onto him tightly this time.

Lost in their dolor, neither brother was aware of Amaya behind them until she united in their embrace. Callum felt anguish in every one of Amaya's heavy movements. She hugged them tightly, showing no means of letting go. When Callum opened his eyes, he saw grief drawn over his aunt's face.

The type of grief he hadn't seen since his mother's death.

* * *

Despite the Coalition's loss of their one of two leaders, Amaya stayed with Callum and Ezran permanently after their father's funeral. She appointed Gren as standing overseer until she returned to her position. Nobody asked when that would be.

Deciding that it wasn't sound for the brothers to be left utterly alone, Amaya moved her belongings into her late sister's dwelling the night of Harrow's death.

In time, Ezran came to believe that their home was void of all that had once made it home, though. Beyond the windows the sun would shine every day, casting its rays to warm the shack and light the colors inside it. Hunters and traders of the Coalition gifted Amaya with enough venison to last months in honor of their fallen leaders' sons. People spoke fondly of Harrow when walking along the gravel roads, not knowing that Callum and Ezran could hear them inside their home. Yet none of this seemed to buffer the family's pain.

The blissful memories that Callum tried to recall only saddened him further. He and Ezran would reminisce when they found that they couldn't sleep. Ezran liked to hear about the day he was born. How he had smiled the moment he saw Sarai's face. How his mother, father, aunt, and brother always argued over who got to hold him. How he had instantly become one of the Coalition's greatest symbols of hope and zeal. Again, it didn't help as much as it should have, but it was something. Distracting. It directed their attention away from their ruling lives.

Ezran and Callum never left each other's sides. Grieving seemed rushed due to the time of year, so they put it on hold. Without having to say it aloud, they could both sense the next threat. It depleted their spirits and shadowed their every thought.

Callum knew he had to draw upon his strength to get Ezran through it.

Because Ezran had already begun sobbing throughout the nights, gasping for breath and digging his nails into his skin to forms of fists. Every twilight Callum would shake him from his sleep and uncurl his fingers to reveal bloody, half-moon imprints in his brother's palms. He would take Ezran in his arms and comb his fingers through his hair as their mother had done so many years ago.

"You're eleven, Ezran," Callum would whisper. "The odds of your names being drawn are slim to none, you know that. There are hundreds of kids in our district and your name has only been applied twice."

But Ezran would only cry harder, the vibrations in the air stirring Amaya from sleep until she walked into their room with an expression Callum could not read. She would sit at the foot of their bed and watch Ezran intently, pity and something else flashing in her eyes. More times than not, she would silence both of the boys by wrapping them up in a hug. They would all fall into a fitful sleep and wake up the next morning with no talk of what had happened throughout the night, for they knew it would happen again after dusk.

"Then why do I only dream of being chosen?" Ezran would cry on other nights. "It's the future Callum, I know it is."

Deep down, Callum knew that this wasn't the case, but the tone in Ezran's voice never failed to make his hair stand on end. Ezran believed that his dreams would really happen - it became more clear every night. And soon it wasn't hard for Callum to believe the same.

"It could be worse," Callum would try to soothe. "They wait until we're at least ten years old before entering us in the reapings. Better than making kids fight to the death at eight or nine like they used to allow."

Ezran never had any response to this.

The boys' aunt would habitually cut in at that point of the one-sided conversation.

_We have already had our share of bad luck,_ Amaya would sign. _It is unlikely that your name will be drawn and even more unlikely that our bad luck will continue. You will be safe, Ezran, and so will Callum. I promise you both._


	5. Inscribed Fate - Rayla

Rayla ran until she reached District 11's first border, unable to stop. Pills clattered against their confinement in her satchel, coaxing her faster through the darkened fields in fear of being heard. Recurrently, she tried to remember the stranger's hands on hers, showing her how to apply the right amount of twisting tension in order to get the cap off of the bottle. (If worse came to worse, though, she could simply break the bottle to retrieve the pills.)

And yet her mind kept drifting back to that moment. Something about it reinforced her breathing and upheaved her heart, giving her enough adrenaline to continue pushing on.

Most of the sustenance that she had packed was gone when she crossed into District 11. Conserving the energy that she wouldn't receive from food became her top priority. She needed to rest. Even if rest meant spending the night in unfamiliar territory and managing the threat of Peacekeepers that lurked above her consciousness.

So Rayla constructed a dismal lean-to and fell into sleep quickly beneath it. Broken bones and green eyes and sore legs haunted her dreams. All were bad.

At least, she tried to remind herself of this.

* * *

Streaks of light warmed Rayla when she came to consciousness. She hadn't woken before dawn like she'd planned, but she was more so confused rather than upset. It had been weeks - possibly months - since she'd slept past sunrise. Stress had always roused her hours before the sun took shape in the sky. Nonetheless, time was on her side while she packed her meager supplies into her satchel and took off for her district.

In spite of her searing muscles, Rayla was energetic and alive, taking just over half a day to cover District 11's territory. She kept to the outskirts of the woods when she made her way back to her Kins' camp. Once she was far enough away, Rayla took out the bottle of pills and called back to muscle memory, squeezing the cap and opening the bottle of antibiotics. After emptying a majority of the pills onto a flat piece of bark, the girl drew one of her swords and positioned her grip at the top of her weapon's handle. Grimacing, Rayla pounded the handle of her blade against the pills until they turned to powder.

Kin did not get the rare luxury of vaccines and pills like some of District Twelve's people. Which was fine with everyone, really. Runaan often said that pills were "unnatural" and that he preferred intrinsic embodiments of medicine. So he and his Kin sought out remedies in the leaves of plants and the bones of animals.

Rayla poured the powder back into the bottle and emptied the rest of the pills in her pockets before scouring the forest floor for wild lettuce. The matter that bled from its stem acted as a fine pain relief substitute and she had to come back with something.

While she made her way back to camp, Rayla wondered if anyone else in her Kin had met someone from a district outside of Twelve. Not that it was something she would ever ask to find out. A slim barrier seemed to wedge itself between her and her Kin from that point on. One that would only grow more prominent with time.

Ki'somma greeted her with a familiar smile when she strolled into camp. In spite of her own world seeming to collapse in on itself, Rayla's Kin looked the same. They hailed her with quick smiles and kind words. Rayla didn't know what she'd been expecting, but nothing had changed inside the camp.

She carried her newfound belongings into her tent and spotted Runaan sleeping on the far side of his and Tide's bed. Quietly, she prepared some tea and stirred some of the antibiotic powder in it, waking Runaan by lifting his head and ordering him to drink.

"I've already had my tea today, Rayla. It made me more jaded than I had anticipated." He looked up at her and smiled tiredly. "I'm glad you've come home. You've been missed."

Rayla couldn't help but return his smile, tilting her head. "Well this tea will no' help me," she insisted through a chuckle, bringing the cup up to his lips. "It's already cooled down some. Just drink. That's all I ask, ye hear?"

So Runaan had drunk gratefully. When Tide came home some hours later, the three spent the rest of the evening together like the family they used to be. Two days went by before Rayla returned to her duties.

Runaan proved to get better within the week that passed. Meanwhile, Rayla's positions within Dhara's Kin were fulfilled once again, and somehow she still stood firm on her early morning and late night, miles-long runs. Nor did she stop sparring with those who would take her, or insisting on building up her strength by limiting her diet to any large portions of protein she could find.

Another week passed.

The antibiotics must have started to wear off at that point, because Runaan's energy began to drain. Slowly, he returned to his old self: sick and despondent and dependent.

When she saw that not even the cure-all of medication could save him, Rayla made up her mind.

She needed medicine. Real, personal medicine that would help Runaan. She needed better shelter for her uncles. She needed quick access to food, especially food that couldn't be found in the forest. Runaan needed a better diet. Better housing and better care.

Not even money could help her now, though. She needed to move.

Move districts, move in the food chain, move Runaan to a facility where he would be taken care of twenty-four-seven. She just needed to move.

So three weeks after her trek to District 9, she returned to the heart of her childhood town. Specifically, to the Justice Building of District 12.

Even though they were all part of the same district, people lifted their noses or sneered when Rayla passed them. But she paid them no mind. The children who dodged out of the dusty streets to stare at her with wide eyes always caught her attention, though. A girl no older than thirteen gazed at her with hope while a boy the same age gazed at her with fear. Long after they had disappeared from sight, they continued to push their presence into her mind. Especially the girl.

_I'm protecting her,_ Rayla thought dully.

Momentarily, she hesitated before pushing the doors of the Justice Building open. By the time she strode into the building, though, her jaw was set and her eyes were blazing.

Peacekeepers located near the entrance immediately stormed towards her, grunting things that she could no longer hear.

The blood was rushing in her ears now. There was an epinephrine-fueled surge of foresight that pounded through her body. It steadied her, blocking out any more traces of fear and havering. Rayla's mind was set. Her decision was already made and her focus narrowed into what she knew she had to do.

_I'm protecting them._

Visions of Runaan and Tide barreled into her, nearly knocking her off balance. Or maybe it was the Peacekeepers, she wasn't sure.

The doors behind her slammed shut at the same time that Peacekeepers clasped their iron grips around her biceps. They began to drag her in the direction of what she guessed to be a cell.

"Get off me," she ordered them. "I'm here to sign up for the Games."

There was a heartbeat of uncertainty that was quickly followed by the Peacekeepers steering her in a different direction. They marched her into a room with a single window, desk, and chair.

"Sit down and stay," one of the Peacekeepers instructed.

Rayla kept her head down so nobody would see her scowl. She took her place and looked up in time to see the Peacekeepers walking out and shutting the door behind them. The silence in the room was too loud, not allowing her thoughts to reach her, not allowing her emotions to catch up to her. It took a few seconds for Rayla to realize that she was panting and coated in a thin layer of cold sweat. She leaned back against her chair and exhaled, grinding her teeth together.

A familiar figure took shape in behind the window in the room. But again, it took her a few seconds to realize this.

When she saw that it was Ki'somma, she simply stared. He looked horrified, already turning on his heel to run back to the camp and round up their Kin to fight for Rayla.

"No," she whispered.

Ki'somma blinked. Terror and confusion manifested in him. He tried to take a step closer to the window but retreated when a Peacekeeper shoved the door to the room open.

Rayla turned her head back and cursed inside her head. How hadn't she noticed that Ki'somma was following her? She was always able to sense when people were tracking her or looking at her. Runaan had taught her to see the signs. Subconsciously, she prayed that her senses weren't beginning to fail her. They couldn't now. Not at a time like this.

"Sign it."

A lengthy sheet of paper slid into her line of sight. Someone grabbed her forearm and forced a pen into her grasp.

She wasn't crying but her vision was blurry. Inked words ran together before her. The tips of her ears burned red.

_You already know what you're agreeing to. Don't bother reading it._

_"Just sign it."_

With Ki'somma's eyes burning into her, Rayla signed her name on the line at the bottom of the paper, not allowing her hand to shake.

Once the agreement was final, a Peacekeeper snatched the paper and pen from Rayla before another grabbed her arm, lifting her out of the chair and governing her out of the room. At that point her vision was blurry with tears, yet she permitted none to fall. She knew that Ki'somma was still watching her. Part of her wondered what he would tell their Kin.

As the sound of helicopter blades began to whir outside, Rayla didn't fight back against the people who led her to the noise.

"I belong here," she told herself. Her voice was lost in the overwrought atmosphere and blaring machine. "I belong here, I do." A sob caught in her throat and she hated herself for it. "I do."

Although no-one could hear her, it sounded like she was begging.


	6. The Tribute's Tribute - Callum

**A/N: The last chapter was . . . pretty iffy. From a written standpoint. (I think the chapter didn't quite flow as well as it could have - I felt like it was lacking something.) But I'd like to say that this chapter is better worded than the previous one! And a big thank you to those who have favorited/followed/left kind comments on this story! It means the world to me!**

* * *

No less than a week later, the day came for District 9's children to be reaped.

Apathetic and paralyzed, drained of hope and trying, Callum and Ezran readied themselves for the reaping. A sickly calmness echoed off every one of Ezran's movements, his words no more than murmurs and mumbles. This was a side of him that Callum had never seen so vividly before.

There was another side of Amaya that began to glow brighter that morning, too. The one that would flicker in her eyes when she'd watch Ezran break down after a nightmare.

Callum felt like he was the only one who'd remained the same.

Or maybe he wasn't the same anymore. In the past weeks he'd stopped talking as much as he used to. Then again, the whole Coalition grew quiet after Harrow's death. But Callum felt as though this was different.

Different from the way he felt after his mother's death.

Sarai's death was unanticipated. It changed the Coalition, it changed Callum and his family forever. Harrow's death was expected to some point. Days before it happened, people were preparing themselves for the worst. This tragedy had happened before and everyone had managed. If it happened again, they knew that they could at least endure it.

Soon Amaya would return to her place as the Coalition's leader. (People were thankful that they still had Amaya, one of its founders, to lead them.) When she took her place, though, it would then be up to Callum to take care of Ezran.

Which he had done before, after Sarai's death, but taking care of him after Harrow's death would prove to be different. Harder in ways that Callum wasn't ready for. This time Ezran was coming to recognize the world that they lived in.

The weeks that followed Sarai's death had been long and unsure. There hadn't been time to grieve - Harrow and Amaya had to step up, they had to fill Sarai's place with even more opposition than the three of them had previously had. They needed to prove that her death would not be in vain. Most of all, Harrow and Amaya had to protect the Coalition with their entire sense of being. Without Sarai, the Coalition was vulnerable. Its two leaders couldn't let anything happen because of it.

So Callum had taken the place of his late mother and tended to Ezran, who had barely been a toddler at the time. The brothers would spend the majority of their days in the makeshift orphanage that housed children with deceased or absent parents. Adults were there to care for the little ones, but Callum remembered never wanting Ezran to leave his sight. If he said goodbye, like he'd said goodbye to Sarai weeks ago, Ezran might receive the same fate as their mother.

Who was to say that wasn't how it worked?

Death was common in District 9. It was even more common in the Coalition. This was something that every child of the Coalition learned early on. Ezran and Amaya were the only parts of Sarai - and now Harrow - that Callum had left.

Now, as Callum was reminding Ezran to tuck in the tail of his shirt, Callum felt raw defensiveness and love blinding him. He would never leave his younger brother's side. He would never let him suffer as much as the world demanded he did. He couldn't. He couldn't let that happen.

Callum knelt down to Ezran's level and cuffed his pants, seeing as they were just a little bit too big for the boy.

"Two slips of paper out of more than a thousand, Ezran," Callum told him with a consoling smile. "That doesn't even count the tesserae. You're going to be fine. Now more than ever, the odds are in your favor."

Ezran smiled painfully. "I know. Thanks, Callum." His expression waned for a moment. Harrowing fear subsided to raw desperation, and a sob caught in his throat. Callum caught Ezran as he slumped into his grasp, already trying to wipe his tears and steady his breathing.

Callum grabbed his shoulders and helped him regain his posture, staring at him with a heartening gaze. "Nothing is going to happen to you, Ezran. I promise."

As Ezran's eyes slowly got less and less glossy, Amaya made her way into the brothers' presence. If Callum hadn't known her as well as he did, he would have guessed that she was outright angry. Her eyebrows were knit together and her eyes were dark. There was a stiffness to her stance that forewarned something Callum couldn't understand. Some of it faded when Ezran turned around, though, facing his aunt with a forced smile. Callum followed his lead.

_You boys look so handsome,_ Amaya gushed abruptly. A soft grin found its way onto her face, ridding Amaya of any malice that had shown before. She wrapped them up in a lingering hug before guiding them outside.

Walking down the gravel roads were flocks of children and adults, all stone-faced, all silent. They might as well have been zombies.

Callum, Ezran, and Amaya followed them outside of the Coalition's grounds and into the center of town.

It was a hot day. Sticky and humid, with no clouds in sight. Everyone was squinting against the harsh lights. Callum felt sweat roll down the back of his neck within the first few minutes of being outside. Walking the way into town didn't help calm his nerves or fight off the heat, either.

It was hard to look at the Justice Building when they reached it. Sunlight gleamed off of its shiny gray exterior, defying anyone to gaze upon it. Before its walls were masses of children and teenagers. Each age group was separated by roped-off sections, with the oldest in the front of the Justice Building and the youngest in the back.

The boys felt Amaya herding them to the side of the road before they had to part ways. All three of them clasped hands. All three of them lowered their heads.

_I will see you when all of this is over,_ Amaya told them. Again, her eyes were dark and her movements were stiff. _Give your reassurance to the tributes. They will need it._

Violent trembles seized Erzan's body. Amaya squeezed his hand tighter so he was forced to use the pain in her grip as an anchor. Slowly, his shaking died away.

_Save your strength for the Coalition. That is where you boys are needed. Not here._

"I will see to it," Callum told her, nodding.

There was no sound of alarm or shouting of Peacekeepers, but something told the trio that it was time to part. With no more words shared, Amaya embraced her nephews fiercely and then sent them on their way, pointing to each roped-off section that they were assigned to be in. They walked away quickly, looking back too many times to count.

"I'll see you when all this is over," Callum whispered to Ezran, letting the jostling bodies of anxious kids push him closer to his brother. The younger boy simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Callum tightened his grip once before Ezran was steered away, warily letting his hand fall from his brother's.

Callum was sixteen and therefore two sections away from the front of the Justice Building. Every year he was penitent to have been stepping closer and growing taller, as this allowed him to get a better view of the panicked youths-turned-tributes. This year he was pushed towards the middle of his section, unconsciously drawn to the familiar faces of the Coalition's sixteen-year-old boys. They greeted him with scanning eyes and curt nods. Nobody said anything.

In fact, on Reaping Day, all of District 9's kids grew quiet. Year after year, generation after generation, every parent's child understood why silence was favored on that day.

While the last of District 9's population gathered near the Justice Building, Callum felt himself beginning to go numb. "Auto-pilot" is what Harrow called it. Sometimes even he, one of the great leaders and founders of the Coalition, admitted to Callum that he succumbed to that state of mind when times got tough.

The teen's eyes were glued to the stage that had been constructed the night before, where a woman was standing before a microphone. Two glass bowls were on either side of her. Rays of rainbows shined through the bowls, the only natural and vibrant colors that gleamed that day.

Callum frisked his memory for the woman's name. She was renowned within the upper Districts, hailing from District 2, although disregarding most of her district's sense of fashion. She had pale skin and even paler blond hair. Depending on what light she was standing in, it often looked like she had highlights, too. There was a scarlet-red scarf that shielded most of her hair from the sun but allowed her face to remain visible to the crowd.

Even though Callum had been staring at her, racking his mind for her name, when she tapped the microphone, the sound of it made him flinch. Her garbs swayed in the harsh wind, hues of red and white clashing. She didn't seem to notice.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Her eyes surveyed the long assemblage of adults, then fell to the roped-off areas before her. "Boys and girls."

_Opeli. Opeli of District Two, of course._

"Today we will select the twenty-four tributes, which will fight for their lives and for their districts to win this year's annual Hunger Games. I feel honored to be here, as should you."

Her voice rang out strong and clear. She had been to District 2 many times throughout Callum's youth. Opeli was acclaimed within all of the districts, really. It was easy to see why.

Her speeches were simply that: speeches. Never once did she let her emotions bend her words or her tone. In all his years, Callum had never seen her smile or frown. She was here on business, doing what needed to be done, and that was that.

Yet Callum never felt as though Opeli was talking down to the people she was standing over. A poised, perilous air radiated around her. Everyone could see it in the way she stood, the way she spoke and the way she stared.

_There is no pity and no spite inside of her,_ Callum thought._ Only a sense of justice. She is only standing for what she believes is right._

". . . I hope that one day our children can live together in peace and without violence."

_Do you really?_

Callum searched her face, only to find features that were short of sentiment of any kind. Half-heartedly, he wondered that if next year, when he was one section closer to the stage, he would be able to read her better, closer.

Because every year, whoever was giving this speech, always ended it in hopes of a future that children could be free of violence in. But when Callum got old enough to discern what those words truly meant, he realized that he couldn't even picture a future like that. It just wasn't possible.

"Now," Opeli began, exhaling deeply. "The time has come for us to select one valorous young man and woman for the honor of representing their district in this year's annual Hunger Games. I wish good luck to District Nine and its tributes."

At that moment something changed. Callum felt his heart began to pound again. It was in his throat, choking him, making it hard to breathe.

Opeli's footsteps echoed off of the floor of the stage as she walked to one of the bowls.

_Ladies first,_ Callum silently pleaded._ Ladies first. Ladies first._

Opeli paused directly behind the bowl, cast her gaze down from the crowd, and submersed her hand into an endless crater of names.

Someone in the section behind Callum stifled a sob. Feet shuffled against the gravel road. Callum dug his nails into his palms.

Opeli wasn't the type of person to wave her hand around inside the bowl and search for which slip of paper felt "right." She simply grabbed the first name she touched, took it out, and opened it. There was only a half-second pause before she spoke.

"Freya."

Far away, a man cried out. A parent.

_A father._

Wretched grunting followed this act of despondency. Callum didn't have to look behind himself to know that whoever had just cried out was now at the end of a Peacekeeper's baton.

To the right of him, two sections behind his, Callum saw a girl ducking under the rope of her section. Peacekeepers met her in the aisle between boys and girls, compelling her forwards. She didn't resist or hesitate, nor did she whimper or scream. She simply walked to the stage, made her way up the stairs, and met Opeli beside the bowl of girls' names.

Opeli stepped to the side, giving Freya her place in front of the bowl she had just drawn from. The girl stepped in front of it without wavering.

Callum had seen many forms of shock before. In the Coalition's makeshift orphanage there were always new children that had yet to shed a tear over their parents' deaths. Some would make the conscious decision to shut themselves off from their emotions, thinking that this was protecting them. Others wouldn't be able to fathom what had happened to their family.

After a scrap with Peacekeepers or ruffians, there were always soldiers that strolled into camp with glazed eyes and slouched posture. Once a soldier had lost four of her fingers on one hand, but failed to notice until she reached out to grab part of her attire. Only when she fumbled trying to strip her armor, did she begin to panic in the crowd of passing soldiers, exclaiming that she needed help.

While he gazed up at the girl on stage, it struck Callum that the reason she wasn't nervous was because she was in shock.

"Freya?" Opeli asked. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen, miss," Freya mumbled.

Opeli positioned the microphone in front of her to stand at Freya's level. "Louder, please."

"I am fourteen, miss," Freya said again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I give you fourteen-year-old Freya of District Nine." Opeli turned to Freya, who still looked indifferent to the world beneath her feet. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

Again, reality hit Callum square between the eyes and he lost his breath. Opeli walked to the boys' bowl of names and stopped in front of it, looking out over the crowd of boys and young men.

She dipped her left hand into the bowl, selected a name towards the bottom, and drew it quickly.

Callum felt the collar of his shirt getting tighter. Opeli's actions were slow and her frame was getting hazy. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was in one of Ezran's nightmares.

Opeli gracefully tore open the slip of paper, positioned herself in front of the microphone, and exhaled.

"Ezran."

Callum's head snapped up. He hadn't realized that he'd let it fall, but at the sound of his brother's name, his blood ran hot.

There was a deadly silence. A silence that hadn't followed Freya's name.

The boys around Callum spread out, allowing him to turn around. He stood on his toes and craned his neck to see Ezran, but to no avail.

_"No."_

He pushed his way through the crowd of sixteen-year-old boys, nearly stumbling into the rope that separated him from the aisle between boys and girls. There were Peacekeepers crowding around Ezran's section.

"Ezran!"

Callum ducked under the rope and started for his brother, who was already walking towards him, shrouded by Peacekeepers.

Breathless, Callum whirled around, abstractedly fighting off two Peacekeepers who were coming up behind him, trying to grab his arms. He located Opeli, and although his mind was already set, although a torrent of white-hot anger was eating away at any anxiety he was having, Callum's fists shook. His voice was a storm of desperation and conviction.

"I volunteer!" He threw the Peacekeepers off of him, standing up straighter. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Another breath of silence.

Someone ran into him with the force of a plow. Callum turned back around to find Ezran in his arms, his cheeks as scarlet as Opeli's scarf. He gripped his brother's shoulders and held him tightly, shaking his head at the sight of Ezran's tears.

"Go find Amaya, Ezran. Go find her now, please," Callum begged.

Ezran bit his lip. "No, Callum, I can't. You-"

"Ezran," Callum snapped, feeling his own tears run hot against his cheeks. With strength he didn't know he had, Callum wrapped his arms around Ezran and clasped him against himself, dragging his brother away from the approaching Peacekeepers.

"You need to go, Ezran. Now. Please."

Ezran hiccuped and gasped, shaking his head harder, hitting Callum's chest with his forehead. Stamping feet made Callum push him away. Too many tears were blurring his vision. It felt like he was underwater. The pressure was too much, too heavy to allow him to breathe and too blinding to allow him to see. He thrust his hands out, shoving Ezran back, yelling things he wouldn't remember later.

"Don't hurt him! Don't you dare hurt him!"

Seven Peacekeepers separated the brothers effectively. Two wound their hands around Ezran's arms while another led them to Amaya. It took four Peacekeepers to pacify Callum.

Before he could register how, Callum found himself stumbling towards the stairs of the stage, following two Peacekeepers while another pair shadowed him. He tripped going up the steps and wiped his eyes as he got on stage, hoping the other Peacekeepers were delivering Ezran to Amaya at that moment.

And then he was alone.

Abandoning his Peacekeepers, Callum walked to Opeli, hanging his head low.

Opeli adjusted the microphone in front of him when he met her in front of the bowl she had just drawn from.

"Ezran," she said, as if testing the name on her tongue.

It was enough to make Callum's head snap back up. Opeli was staring at him with more emotion than he'd ever seen, although it wasn't pitiful or understanding. She was simply trying to read him.

"Your brother?"

Callum nodded.

"My brother."

He looked out over District 9, habitually searching for his family.

"How old is he?"

"Eleven."

"And how old are you?"

Callum peered up at her. "Sixteen."

"Your name?"

"Callum."

A moment passed. The ken faded from Opeli's face as she turned her back to the crowd. Her neutral, set features were back in place.

"Not everyone you lose is a loss," she whispered.

Then she stood up straighter, walked over to the microphone in the middle of the stage, and exhaled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I give you sixteen-year-old Callum of District Nine." She glanced in Callum's direction. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

She held her hands out on either side of her, wordlessly beckoning Callum and Freya from their spots. They met her slowly, shock drawn out over both of their expressions. Apathetic and paralyzed, they lifted their chins and stared ahead of themselves.

"I give you our tributes from District Nine. Freya and Callum. May the odds be ever in your favor."

Nobody in the crowd spoke. For sustained seconds, nobody moved.

The familiar sound of battle armor clanging together governed Callum's attention towards the very back of the crowd. There he found familiar faces. There was the Coalition.

Amaya and Ezran were there, watching Callum with expressions too far away to see. But Amaya's left hand was placed over Ezran protectively, and the clamoring of armor that Callum had heard sounded again. He saw that Amaya had placed her right hand over her heart.

The action was being mimicked all throughout the Coalition's people, until it spread to the other adults, teenagers, and children of District 9. Everyone, hand over heart, was staring at Callum and Freya, their gazes resilient and their stances unyielding.

Distantly, Callum recalled Amaya telling him that many, many years ago, the people who once lived on the land they now resided on, had placed their right hands over their hearts when reciting something called "The Pledge of Allegiance." That action had quickly become something that most people in the Coalition presented to Amaya, Harrow, and Sarai, as well as some of the Coalition's exceptional members.

Never once had Callum dreamed of the Coalition's people saluting him as they had saluted his parents and aunt. (Much less all of District 9.)

Never once had it crossed his mind that he would have to _win_ the Hunger Games.

But never once had hesitation glinted inside of him as he took Ezran's place.

* * *

"You have five minutes."

The Peacekeepers that had escorted Amaya and Ezran into a secured room in the Justice Building filed out of the doorway and stood with their backs against the wall.

"Five minutes. That's all," the last Peacekeeper told them. He marched out of the room and shut the door behind himself.

At once, Ezran threw himself into Callum's grasp.

"I'm so sorry, Callum. I knew this was going to happen. I knew I was going to get picked." He stared up at his brother with a flooded gaze. "I never imagined you would take my place, though. I didn't know this would happen."

"There's no way you could have known this would happen, Ez," Callum soothed. "Every kid has nightmares about being picked. But you don't have to worry any-"

"You have to win, Callum," Ezran said abruptly. "You have to."

Callum opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

Eventually he just nodded his head, soundlessly agreeing.

Amaya's hand on Ezran's shoulder grounded the brothers to some extent.

_Ezran,_ Amaya signed. _You need to say goodbye now._

Maybe Ezran was in too much shock, or maybe he understood perfectly, but the boy obeyed.

"I'll miss you, Callum. I'll be waiting for you to come home," Ezran murmured, winding his arms around his brother and holding on for dear life. "I'll root for you. We all will." His frame shook suddenly. "You have to win."

"I will Ezran. For you."

Gingerly, Ezran was pulled away by Amaya. His hair was disarray and his lower lip was trembling. The tears in his eyes spilled onto his cheeks and down his chin. He looked utterly defeated.

Once Ezran was out of the room, accompanied by Gren, Callum reflected on what could be the last memory he would have of his brother, and began to cry.

Amaya took her nephew in her arms and stared down at him decidedly.

"I don't know what to do, I don't know what I'm doing," Callum wept. "I never thought I'd have to win. It wasn't a question to take his place, but Amaya, I can't win. I can't win-"

Rather than consoling or upbraiding him for what he'd confessed, Amaya only shook her head. She put a finger to her lips and ran her other hand through Callum's hair.

With his vision so blurry from tears, half of him pretended that he was in the arms of his mother.

Amaya wiped his tears away and continued to stare at him with a gaze he couldn't quite read. She parted from him enough for her to sign, but when she lifted her hands, she paused like she couldn't find the words.

_I never wanted anyone else to know, _she began slowly._ Much less you or your brother. I would rather have you learn this from me, though. _Amaya regained her posture, standing before her nephew with that same expression he'd never been able to understand. _Callum, when I was nine, I was drawn as a tribute for our district._

_And I won._

"What?" Callum gasped, trying to creep closer to his aunt. She shook her head and paced the floor a few times. "How come I never knew? How come no-one ever said?"

_Nobody wants to recall the events - including me - Callum. I had never trained for it. I had never planned to win the Games, but I did. Gamemakers did not appreciate this. If I, a child, a deaf nine-year-old girl at that, could win, who else could? Somehow I made it look easy, Callum. I made the gamemakers look stupid._

"So they didn't want to remember you? They didn't want anyone to remember you?" Callum thought aloud.

_Exactly. They wanted to pretend it had never happened. The Games are meant to scare people, to keep us in check. We fear them as children, we fear them for our children. The Games exist to keep us from rebelling because in the end, the gamemakers always win._

"But . . . you did win."

Ignoring what he was trying to say, Amaya went on.

_Which means you can, too. You are my blood, Callum, you have it inside you to win._

"I have to," Callum realized.

Footsteps pounded towards Callum and Amaya. The door to their room swung open and Peacekeepers began barking orders and separating them. Callum kept his eyes on Amaya's hands, letting them anchor him.

_You will. As it was once my time, it is now your time to become Victor._


	7. Stats - The Capitol

**STATS**

EXAMPLE: **District - M/F.** Name. Age. Strength(s). Weakness(es). Popularity tactic. Volunteered/DNV (Did Not Volunteer). Extra Info.

**District 1 - F. **Fury. 17. Is a born Career/Victor, truly inspired and elated to be part of the Games, gain sponsors, aim for Victor, etc.; excellent at almost everything she does and is always smiling. Doesn't fully discern how barbaric/demanding the Games and its consequences are, and is somewhat taken aback when she realizes this. A born Victor who is liked by everyone; refreshing and promising. Volunteered.

**District 1 - M. **Titan. 18. Buff, strong, and tall; handsome and very well trained (perhaps the best Career in this year's Games). Has feelings for/wants to protect Fury. A strong, stately, likeable gentleman who will become Victor or die trying. Volunteered.

**District 2 - F. **Vixie (Vixen). 18. Is a trained career whose targets are other Careers (although she keeps this to herself when training for and entering the Games). Thinks any non-Careers are below her and doesn't find them threatening enough to protect herself against. Her name sounds most like Victor (thus telling the people that it is meant for her to be Victor), and her Career personality and district will ensure her to win. Volunteered.

**District 2 - M. **Quest. 17. Well-built and promising (as he comes from one of the upper districts and is a trained Career). He is more smart than he is strong, but doesn't flaunt this fact. Upper district, trained Career who is promising enough for people to sponsor. Volunteered. He is always watching Vixie and believes he can see her real motives, but again, tells no-one. He plans to take her out himself.

**District 3 - F.** Brave. 18. Is a Career, doesn't need much sleep, and is extremely brawny. In spite of her brute strength and training, she isn't too confident in herself and has rarely been apart from her mother. Exceptionally strong, qualified Career. Volunteered. It was her mother's idea to train her for this lifestyle; she doesn't come from a family of Careers.

**District 3 - M. **Osiris. 17. Reserved but well-trained Career who is always finding people's weaknesses and planning to use them against them. Because of his quiet, private nature, some Careers and sponsors suspect that he isn't trustworthy. Stealthy, snarky, ambitious Career. Volunteered.

**District 4 - F. **Olympia. 17. Since she could walk, she had been trained on how to win the Games. Truly doesn't have the heart for battle. Auspicious, competent girl who is guaranteed to put up a good fight. Volunteered.

**District 4 - M.** Hunter. 16. Has been training to be a Career his whole life. Drawn for the Games two years too early, which makes him very unsure of himself as he prepares himself for the arena. A Career that the stars themselves chose. DNV.

**District 5 - F. **Nell. 15. Funny and social, has a determination to win and is very competitive. Not too aware of her surroundings and somewhat self-centered. Humorous, driven girl who will give the Games her all. DNV.

**District 5 - M.** Anders. 18. Truly a good-natured guy who is strong and gets rightfully, carefully upset over what is unjustified. Wants to help/save everyone he can. Promising, kindhearted, likeable guy. DNV.

**District 6 - F.** Rozalina. 12. Stealthy, quick, knows when to run, and doesn't trust anyone. It is very clear that she is just a child, therefore not a fair fight in the Games. Adorable, scared little girl who is trying to survive the Games. DNV. She cries quite easily.

**District 6 - M. **Wilkin. 14. Rather fit and tall for his age; comes off as nice and friendly. Too late, he realizes that he has a bloodlust for the Games that could be stronger than the Careers'. A charmer and a nice guy. DNV.

**District 7 - F. **Theo (Theodosia). 16. Smart, nice, and kind enough to make friends with almost everyone. Always wants to help people. Sweet, smart girl who is eager to prove herself. DNV.

**District 7 - M.** Farbey. 18. Has lots of potential as he is sturdy, brawny, and knows how to fend for himself. Comes off as awkward, shut off, and/or blunt. Strong, scary guy. DNV. Tries to help people, especially Theo.

**District 8 - F.** Auden. 18. Has a Career's type of personality/goals. Makes enemies easily. Career born in the wrong district. Volunteered.

**District 8 - M. **Miko. 11. Not easily noticed, usually quiet, quick-witted, and can run/hide well. Most assume that he is too young to trust/root for. Quiet yet creative kid. DNV.

**District 9 - F.** Freya. 14. Is determined to simply survive and refuses to trust anyone. Her underlying anger is evident in her personality, the fact that she chooses not to trust anyone makes for strained relationships, and she rejects playing the responsible, set-out role of a tribute. Rebellious bad girl. DNV.

**District 9 - M.** Callum. 16. Seems to be the only tribute capable of seeing the bigger picture, and uses this to his advantage. Doesn't excel in combat and self-defense, nor does he have experience in living anywhere but in a small town. An older brother protecting his younger brother (Victor Amaya's prodigy nephew). Volunteered. Because the Capitol acknowledges Amaya in an inferior lighting, people do not root for Callum out of fear/respect, but everyone knows that he is the tribute being watched closest throughout the Games.

**District 10 - F. **Karel. 18. Does well on her own and prefers to be that way, as she knows how to provide for only herself. Nobody forms a real friendship/relationship with her leading up to the Games, meaning that she can't trust anyone. Simply a nice, driven girl. DNV.

**District 10 - M.** Sener. 15. Can see through people rather well and when he is nervous he resorts to humor. Tries too hard to be on the Careers' good sides even though he doesn't have the stomach for combat. Humorous relief with smarts and potential. DNV.

**District 11 - F.** Marie. 14. Knows almost everything about plants/herbs, as well as how to alter them to better fit her needs; has worthy reflexes and can hold her own, especially when protecting Rusto. Isn't trained in anything that the Games guarantee. Older sister type of girl who dares to defy anyone who gets in her way. Volunteered. Due to a shoddy home life, she volunteered to escape and spontaneously made it her mission to save Rusto.

**District 11 - M.** Rusto. 13. Due to his young age and nervous personality, people feel bad for him, but Marie manages to convince people that he has lots of potential, and some people like an underdog. Is very shy and quite anxious, with no real talent (but hiding) in the Games. Helpless young boy with a fierce guardian (Marie). DNV.

**District 12 - F.** Rayla. 17. Has "lived off the land," hunted, forged weapons and trained using them, etc., for over half of her life. Is an "Untamed" that comes off as too harshly for people's likings; doesn't smile much, too violent in unfavorable ways, somewhat shut off and prefers to be alone. An "Untamed" showing the people what she's made of. Volunteered.

**District 12 - M.** Jeden. 15. Unconsciously alters his appearance/attitude to better suit those who are interested in him; well-built and fairly smart, refuses to have anything to do with Rayla (often bad-mouthing her to try and get on people's good sides). Comes from the same district as the Untameds, doesn't stand out too well, and because of his constant changing in appearance and attitude, some people think he is insincere. Promising, strong, admiral tribute (especially when compared to Rayla). DNV.

* * *

**A/N: If you read all that boring stuff, you deserve a little reward. (I mainly came up with that so I can keep track of all the characters who will be in the Games/arena. In no way will you need to remember who is who!)**

**Below is just a small teaser and again, doesn't need to be read in order to understand the coming chapters. I made sure to leave the characters' names out of this "chapter" for that reason, but you don't have to think too hard to figure out who they are. Anyhow, enjoy!**

* * *

Power corrupted those it touched, she knew this, yet she believed it differently when compared to her peers. Her eyes were opened when she came into power - it gave her the dexterity to truly _see_, thus corrupting her sense of cognizance forever. Because now she was able to see things for how they truly were.

The puppeteers and their strings became visible, as well as the secrets that really weren't secrets in the Capitol. (They were simply things that people knew shouldn't be spoken aloud. Not in front of questionable titles, anyway.)

This knowledge was something that she couldn't reverse. It was a slow burn at first, but with every realization, with every connected dot, that sophic burn became brighter. More intense. Whether it was for the best or for the worst, it began to change her to better fit her new surroundings.

Currently she was hurrying down the halls, tightening her grip like she was holding onto her newfound knowledge all over again. Despite her three years of living here, she often found herself lost in the wings and corridors of her home. That bright, vexatious sun that flared through the windows and reflected off of her family's China dishes didn't help her at the moment, either. She couldn't remember such a fulgent Reaping Day throughout her youth, and halfheartedly wondered if it was as sweltering in other districts as it was in hers. It made her appreciative of the constantly-circulating cool air that filtered through her home.

At the acute sound of her name being called, she whirled around and dashed into the room she'd heard it coming from

"Dad! There you are!"

Her father was in one of his many studies, standing to face the bookshelf that lined the left wall. The refined wrinkles in his face appeared to crease a bit more while she strode into the room. There was something like stewing annoyance in his gaze, although this was anything but a new reaction to his daughter's abrupt outbursts.

He pointed his chin in her direction and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Didn't you get their reports yet? The tributes?"

Her father's blind interest began to dwindle. "I figured that at the earliest, I would examine their reports tomorrow. Perhaps even when their training commences."

His daughter squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head dramatically. "No, dad, you don't understand. I don't know how you haven't heard. This year's tributes are astonishing, t-they're outlandish!" Not so subtly, she crept closer to him, grinning deviously. "Half of them are volunteers."

That sparked his interest. "Half, you say? Are they all Careers?"

"No, that's the fascinating part. A lot of them are regular teenagers. Untrained ones, at that. I don't know how it happened, or if it was planned or not," she started to ramble. When she glanced up at her father, she saw his pressing expression and quickly went on.

"Most of the volunteers are Careers, but the ones who aren't make it very obvious that they haven't been training for the Games. The girl from Eleven claimed that she initially signed up to die, although some tell me that she's since made it her mission to protect the boy from her district."

"We'll see how that goes. Tell me more."

His daughter smiled awkwardly, perhaps a bit too eager for her own good. "The girl from Twelve, dad. She volunteered."

"What of it?"

"She's one of those Untameds, dad. The ones that aren't supposed to show their tattooed faces in our districts. Personally, I thought they were a legend."

"No, they're not," he said slowly. His voice was deep and his eyebrows were knit together. "They made a deal with the last president: vanish for peace. Why did she volunteer?"

"It said something about her uncle in her report. He's dying and she wants to save him."

"By dying herself?"

"She thinks she can win. She thinks that when she does, her uncle will receive medicine."

"Let her think that," he nearly spat. "Enough about her."

An unsteady silence filled the void between father and daughter.

"You said that not all of the volunteers were Careers. I don't have the reports with me, so I'd like to hear more about these tributes from you." He turned towards her. "So what's stopping you?"

She tilted her head and shot him another awkward grimace. "The boy from Nine."

"And?"

"He is Victor Amaya's nephew," she practically whispered.

Her father's face seemed to blank, but she could see the wheels spinning in his mind. Amaya had earned her victory some decades ago, before her father was President. He had no say in the matter then, but today was a different story.

"His younger brother was drawn and he volunteered in his place. I don't think it was planned."

"It can't be dumb luck."

_Luck for who?_ the girl pondered momentarily.

More silence prevailed until the man walked back to his desk, sat down, and flashed a dazzling smile in his daughter's direction.

"I'll pull some strings," he told her.

"Pull some strings? What-"

That familiar, dangerous light in his eyes that had warranted him his title of President started to glow.

"You're ready to be a mentor this year, aren't you?"


	8. Tears From the Sky - Rayla

Homesickness was the very least of Rayla's worries, but the bothersome, uncomfortable temper never abandoned her. Things were exceedingly different in the Capitol.

As a result of her being Kin (or as strangers of her Kin called it, an Untamed), Rayla was transported to the Capitol the day she signed up for the games. Apparently outside of District 12, nobody was aware that people like her were granted to live while omitting the Peacekeepers' eyes.

Although she tried to feign indifference, Rayla knew that her people were kept secret because they could give others hope to do what her Kin did: virtually live on their own.

Freedom had no real meaning in the districts. Its definition existed to no-one, no matter what district they were in or what title they held.

The girl figured that the Capitol decided to transport her privately so they could give themselves enough time to conjure up a reason as to why "Untameds" were sanctioned in the first place. That and the fact that they wouldn't let her back out of her contract.

Rayla knew that she would pay for unearthing her Kin to the districts.

Until then, she resided in a heavily-guarded building constructed for only the tributes of every year's Games. Arriving almost a week before the official Reaping Day meant that she got to familiarize herself with the customs of District 1's population. Not the fancy weapons or preparing mentors, nor the books that could educate her on the previous Games. Just the people and food that District 1 offered her.

Going into this, Rayla had known that she would be leaving behind everything she knew. That didn't help the fact that she could physically feel how out of place she was, though.

Many of her stylists praised her for volunteering so early, as the extra week gave them enough time to tame her divergent characteristics. They waxed the hairs below her head, scrubbed away the dead skin that still clung to her body (they called this exfoliating), and gave her vitamins that claimed to pale the yellowish tint of her skin. For the most part, she bit her tongue and dealt with whatever changes they threw at her, reminding herself that she would long for this minuscule pain and vexation in the Games. Only after they trimmed her hair to fall just above her shoulder blades and attempted to cover up her emblems, did she speak out.

"Ye don't get to change these," she had hissed, slapping away the hand that threatened to conceal the markings her Kin had given her.

"When we cover your tattoos, you will fit into District Twelve's ideals more easily. People - sponsors - will recognize you as an orthodox girl."

"But ah'm no' that type of girl. Even if I was, I would _want _to stand out. Anyone can tell ye tha' ye get sponsors by _not_ fittin' in."

* * *

Nobody in District 1 was as close-knit as her Kin.

Days into her contract, Rayla woke up with lingering dreams about her old home. Runaan, Tide, Dhara, and her Kin were buried remnants of a life Rayla had chosen to say goodbye to. But sometimes even her mother found her way into Rayla's mind.

How would they react, when the Games commenced and Rayla was broadcasted throughout the districts?

_Will they know that I'm doing it for them?_

Most nights she fell asleep praying that they would.

* * *

Too soon, dawn rose on Reaping Day.

Rayla awoke at six that morning, knowing her home district's reaping would be aired precisely at seven, followed by District 11's reaping at eight, and so on. Thankfully she had the luxury other tributes did not - sizing up her competition from the moment they were chosen.

Even though there was only the gentleman's bowl up on the recently-constructed stage of District 12, there were still a boys' and girls' section herded before the Justice Building.

A fifteen-year-old boy named Jeden was drawn from Rayla's district.

District 12's volunteer had never come across him before, but she could tell that he loomed as a subtle threat from the moment the camera panned over to him. One second he was wide-eyed and trembling, the next his shoulders were squared and his grin was cocky. Rayla hadn't exactly seen anything like that before. While he walked up to the stage and answered the routine tribute questions, she searched for that petrified boy she'd seen, only to find what would surely be an overconfident, guileful threat in the arena.

When the time came, she wouldn't admit it to herself, but Rayla watched District 9's reaping closer than the others. Almost closer than her own district's.

Hailing from District 2, Opeli commanded the reaping without any show of emotion, which calmed Rayla to some extent. She watched her screen without blinking, not allowing herself to pause the program, but studying every male's face she saw with careful haste. (Not that she wanted to see her stranger in such a plight, though. If she could choose, she would have chosen to see her stranger's face brimming with happiness, not pinched in worry.)

As always, ladies were first, and Opeli drew a fourteen-year-old girl named Freya. This girl didn't hesitate to begin her walk to the stage, nor did she disclose any more emotion than Opeli. She had raven hair that was messily chopped above her shoulders, blank green eyes, and tawny skin from working long hours outside. In the end, Rayla fated that Freya was in shock, and therefore not responding with as much emotion as the previous tributes she'd seen.

_Perhaps an easy target._

The next name Opeli called was "Ezran" and didn't ring any bells for Rayla. The camera focused on the group of eleven-year-old boys, and Rayla felt her heart sink. A boy fronting the right of the crowd began shuffling towards the Peacekeepers that were ready to greet him on the gravel road. He hung his head until something off-camera seized his attention, warranting Rayla to take in his features.

The bluest eyes she'd ever seen came into view. She noticed that he wasn't as tall as she'd initially presumed. His hair stood lofty and thick, adding inches to his height.

"Ezran!"

While Rayla's heart had sunk at the sight of this boy, it skipped a beat at the sound of that voice.

_No._

Ezran was already surrounded by Peacekeepers who were marching him towards the stage. The camera neglected to show the audience who had yelled this boy's name so achingly, but after witnessing Ezran's forlorn expression, Rayla surmised it was family.

At once, her mind began treading a mile a minute. Ezran was staring ahead of himself, to a boy older than him therefore, not a family member behind him. Rayla remembered her stranger telling her that he had a younger brother. She could recall the selflessness that had affected his voice when he had talked about his own kin.

Was he selfless enough to get beaten by Peacekeepers just for hollering his brother's name?

The tribute's jaw was slacked just enough for Rayla to assume that he was saying her stranger's name, although the camera couldn't pick up any sound.

How she wished she had learned his name.

"I volunteer!"

The camera whirled around to a scuffle of Peacekeepers and a single civilian.

A single teenage boy.

At that point Rayla had no doubt in her mind who this civilian was.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

He stood tall, needing to be proud. One of his arms was thrust high in the air, palm facing the stage, shaking in too many emotions to count. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Something blurry rammed into Rayla's stranger. For a moment her breath caught, until she recognized Ezran's small frame and sky eyes. District 9's male volunteer crouched to Ezran's level, locking his shoulders in his grip, telling him things Rayla couldn't hear. Within seconds, the brothers were arguing and crying. She could see the resemblance between them. The way their expressions mirrored one another's, the restrained fear and unshackled grievances that betrayed their bearings.

And then the volunteer was pushing his brother away, in the direction opposite to the stage.

Ezran shouted a name Rayla had never heard before, a name she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. She was inches from her screen now, inept to the fact that her fingers were hovering over the pixels of brothers.

"No! You can't! Please-"

Another barrage of Peacekeepers ensnared their way between brothers, dragging them apart.

"You said you would take care of me!" Ezran sobbed.

"I promised dad!" the volunteer screamed in response. "I will fight for you! I will live for you!"

A Peacekeeper jabbed Rayla's stranger in the gut, but he didn't stop shouting. Instead, his promises realigned to threats. Whoever was filming was doing this volunteer no good will. The camera focused on the spittle spewing from his mouth, it zoomed in on the abuse the Peacekeepers rewarded him with and the desperate thrashing that got him nowhere.

Rayla watched in silent horror.

Somehow four Peacekeepers governed Rayla's stranger to the stage. No longer was he spewing threats, no longer was he trying to fight back. In the same haze as his sister tribute, consternation spread out within the volunteer and crashed over him like an ocean's wave. He stumbled to his designated spot on the stage, joining the others in a void of emotion.

Opeli adjusted the microphone before him. When she announced Ezran's name, life sprang back into the volunteer. He rattled off information without needing heavy prompts.

Throughout the one-word answers, Rayla's stranger leveled his head to the audience, and Rayla felt something she had no name for.

The sight of him made her blood run cold. Her eyes focused on his face like this was truly the last time she would see him. There was something hard knotted up in her stomach, sinking lower and lower, growing too heavy for her to bear.

Rayla backed away from the screen, finding that her palms were red and hot to the touch. Without thinking, she blew on them, but the sensation was far too soft for her to take, so she stopped. Maybe she could get used to this burning pain. Maybe this was pain similar to what her stranger was feeling.

"Your name?" Opeli boomed.

Rayla's stranger was staring up at her, his eyes glossy from tears and shock. Only when she discerned that he was starting to get blurry, did Rayla realize she had to remind herself to breathe. Remind herself that she didn't have to stare so hard.

She would see him again soon, in the training center. In the arena.

_I will see him die._

"Callum," District 9's volunteer answered mildly.

Rayla tried to inhale, but her throat was tight and her chest felt too compact for her lungs. Tears were building behind her eyes, hot and heavy, flooding her vision.

"Callum," she choked.


	9. From Shacks and Shanties

"We have skyscrapers and we have shanties. We have suits and ties, and we have holes in socks."

Without lifting her eyes, Rayla knew that the training administrator was looking at her while she spoke. The administrator (whose name Rayla never intended to learn) sighed and launched her practice-speech again, pushing more emphasis into the opposite words.

People in the upper districts were taught to do, not to think. Rayla learned this early on and speculated on how the unconscious method would shine through in the upper-district tributes. They weren't trying to win for the sake of proving a point or saving a fragment of their life. They wanted to win for the title. That was it. Most of them had been raised for it.

Rayla straightened her stance, cracking her knuckles and tensing the muscles in her legs to get her blood circulating.

It was the morning following Reaping Day. The morning Rayla would come face-to-face with her contenders. A day she never dared dream of: the day she would see her stranger - _Callum _\- again.

Attempting to numb her body and mind became an everyday effort for District 12's volunteer. For better or worse, it was starting to work, too.

In the arena she could not bank on the anxiety tablets her stylists continued to offer her. (After a week of having them modify everything about who she was, Rayla was tired of them. Always telling her that she was too tense and too terse to control as well as they preferred. Privately, Rayla guessed that the anxiety tablets they were extending to her were alternatively tranquilizers.)

In the Games, all she would be able to rely on would be herself. So she studied District 1's people, and soon taught herself how to do, and not think about it.

"Look alive," the administrator snapped suddenly.

Rayla obeyed after two second's hesitation, realizing that the administrator was taking her place in the center of the alcove because the tributes were on their way. Her heart beat deep in her chest and she forced her eyes to go out of focus, tightening the muscles in her limbs and stomach.

_He's here, he's here,_ her mind sang. _He doesn't know I'm here._

The tributes filed into the ground floor of the Training Center ranked by district. One's female tribute leading and Twelve's male tribute - _Jeden_ \- flanking. Those toward the front of the line, undeniably Careers, didn't bother suppressing their sentiments.

They were all wide-eyed and slacked-jawed, tilting their chins up to the ceiling, admiring every aspect of the conferred weapons and laid-out trials.

"Remarkable," the first male in line said.

_District 1,_ Rayla recalled, trying to shield where she was looking. None of the Careers paid her much mind, though. They were far too enthralled in the layout of the Training Center. While the line continued to proceed, tributes that didn't fall under the Career title took Rayla in.

A young girl with dark hair and dark eyes gaped at Rayla's uncovered emblems, her jaw slacked for a different reason than the Careers'. After a quick count, Rayla registered that the girl was from District 6.

_Rozalina. Only twelve years old._

Quite literally, for the life of her, Rayla tried not to fix her stare so it approached the end of the line. She demanded that she look only at who was passing her, quizzing herself on the tributes' districts, ages, names. Anything that could distract her from him.

_District 6, a fourteen-year-old boy. Too . . . sook to be a Career-level threat. District 7, a lass, she looks like she's younger than me but older than Rozalina. District 7's male tribute, an eighteen-year-old._

_Dangerous._

Farbey, the male tribute hailing from District 7, was a clear peril of a tribute. Every one of his footsteps was heavy and deliberate. His leaden eyes scanned the building in a tentative sort of reverence before resting on his sister tribute in front of him. He had dark brown skin, bulking muscle that mantled his bones, and a rigid, sturdy expression settled on his face.

A lanky girl with red hair and menacing green eyes pursued Farbey. Shadowing her was a very young boy, perhaps the smallest tribute of them all. Rayla couldn't recall his name, but the memory of his reaping rehashed inside her head.

Only because he was Ezran's age. Eleven.

District 12's volunteer tried to smile at him, but the young boy was lost between reading the action as a threat or a taunt, so he ducked his head and walked away faster.

The tribute and volunteer from District 9 trod on the heels of the eleven-year-old boy.

_Freya._

Freya looked far different from the last time Rayla had seen her. Irritation radiated throughout her every movement. Her eyes were narrowed into a glare, though not at the tributes, but the Training Center as a whole. The moment she caught sight of the administrator, Rayla swore she saw the girl's lip curl.

She was _mad_, Rayla recognized.

Before she could take in more, though, Freya plodded past her, revealing the volunteer that trailed behind her.

_Callum, _Rayla found herself wanting to utter aloud.

Her stranger was jittery and uneasy, snagging one of his hands into the hem of his shirt like he was holding on for dear life.

If her stylists had recommended Rayla medication for her anxiety, they would have given this tribute a real tranquilizer without thinking twice.

Unlike last time, his green eyes did not gleam with tears, his hair was pushed aside so he could see clearly, and his head was aligned upwards, allowing him to take in the balconies of the building that loomed over them. Had he gotten skinnier since she'd last seen him? Swollen skin encircled his bloodshot eyes, making it obvious that he'd been crying. His jaw was clenched, the muscles beneath his skin straining, and Rayla wanted to reach out and touch his arm, like she'd failed to do before.

Too soon, Callum was already wandering past Rayla. So badly, she wanted to hiss, to whisper his name or snap her finger. Anything to get his attention, to get him to look at her.

But fear kept her in place. Halfheartedly, she wondered if she wanted his attention because he was the only sense of familiarity she had here. Another part of her selfishly wanted to help him. Save him from what he was about to face.

Her mind blurred while the rest of the tributes walked past her. She wanted to scream at herself in frustration and fear.

She came to when her brother tribute came into view. He was standing on the right side of her, marking the end of the line. When she glanced at him, she saw that he was glaring at her. She blinked back without drawing attention to herself, then deviated her attention to the training administrator in front of them.

This woman didn't bother to hide her staring, much like Rayla's brother tribute, either. With a shamelessly sour gaze, the administrator examined each tribute before starting her speech.

"You're here to learn how to win, that's it. Not to fight or show off. Here, for now, you are all equal."

Some of the Careers snickered, but went silent under the woman's eyes. She cleared her throat and continued, staring at the Careers.

"In this dwelling we have skyscrapers," her gaze swept to the lower district tributes, "and we have shanties." She rounded her stare to the upper district Careers. "We have suits and ties, dresses, resplendent attire," her eyes landed inches below Rayla's, "and we have holes in socks."

The Careers that had enough nerve to laugh earlier, followed the administrator's line of sight. Rayla could make out facial expressions she'd seen far too many times, but now something felt different as she ignored their chortling and sneering. These were her peers, people her age. People who would soon try to kill her.

No part of her doubted that she'd already been made a target, yet Rayla refused any color but the purple emblems to become visible atop her cheeks.

She would not feel shame for who she was. Her uncles had raised her better than that.

Between the voices of laughter and gasps of bemusement, a familiar tone rang in her ears. At once, he was clear in her peripheral vision. Surely he was trying to make himself obvious, right? His eyes were wider than the Careers' when they'd walked into the Training Center. His lips were moving, undoubtedly trying to form words, but Rayla heard no other sound emerge from her stranger.

It took all of her strength and willpower to narrow her gaze ahead to the administrator, to keep her face pale in color.

"In two weeks," the administrator persisted loudly. "Twenty-three of you will be dead, and one of you will be Victor. Until then, don't go after your fellow tributes. There will be plenty of time for that in the arena. You are here to learn how to spar, contemplate, and most importantly, win."

Callum was still watching her. Wasn't he listening? Didn't he know that this was more important?

Rayla let her eyes fall for half a second, cast them in Callum's direction, then retreated back to the administrator.

"Your mentors will be assigned to you this evening, after they've watched you acquaint yourselves with the bestowed weaponry, principles, and simulations. Today is not the day to venture into unfamiliar territory, tributes. Exhibit your strengths, and your mentor will find you."

The administrator scanned the teenagers one last time, then stepped away, departing into a dark hallway. Immediately, the room erupted into zoetic movement. The Careers showed no restraint or delirium while they strolled deeper into the room, towards the training setup.

Rayla remained rooted to the ground, paying Jeden no mind as he shoved past her, scoffing. Callum was still staring at her, making no move to follow the other Careers and tributes. In a matter of seconds, only four tributes prevailed. Surprisingly the female Career from District 3 was one of them, and the eleven-year-old boy from District 8, alongside Rayla and Callum.

The Career from Three eventually followed Callum's gaze and began staring at Rayla, too. District 12's volunteer shifted uncomfortably under their eyes.

"You're from Twelve?" the Career girl asked.

Rayla turned her head in the girl's path. All of the Careers cemented together for her. To put it simply, they were all a threat, so she didn't yet struggle to pick them apart until they revealed their most formidable strengths and weaknesses.

This girl stood out, though. She was taller than Rayla and close to twice her weight in brawn. Rayla didn't think she'd ever seen such a muscular female tribute before. Loose, golden-brown curls dangled at her shoulders. Her eyes were grassy-green and she didn't seem the least bit concerned about the tanlines that layered her shoulders and upper arms. Something about her didn't scream "Career" like the others, but her build suggested otherwise.

Rayla nodded her head.

The Career made a face, pointing to her own cheeks, broadening her eyes in question. "Your . . . tattoos," she mumbled obtusely. "How?"

"My emblems," Rayla corrected her, glancing at Callum quickly. "Ah'm a member of Dhara's Kin. Ah'm an Untamed."

Fake realization spread out across the Career's face.

"We live under our own eyes. We take care of ourselves. Our emblems are a sign of loyalty and belonging."

A pause.

Mentors could be surveying her already, Rayla imagined. She had to get used to always being watched, even when she couldn't see who was watching.

"I've never heard of you people before," the Career murmured.

"Well," Rayla tried to smile, but was afraid it was more of a daring smirk. "Ah'm here now. Ye don't have to be afraid of me just yet."

The Career girl burst into a fit of chuckles, scaring the eleven-year-old boy away and frankly frightening the remaining two tributes.

"Sure thing," the Career said with a nervous-yet-genuine smile. "I'll see you inside." She waved a hand and ambled to the others.

And then it seemed like déjà vu. Rayla's stranger was alone with her again, both in a place they weren't supposed to be. This time when she looked at him, she didn't look away.

Disbelief and horror clashed throughout Callum's face for a fraction of a second, only to be replaced by a confused, aching sort of awe. He stepped closer to her, and she remained.

"You . . ." he uttered, trailing his eyes over the important aspects of her, straining to find everything familiar about her. "I didn't think I'd see you a-" he stammered, "your kind." A shaky breath. "Not here. You volunteered, didn't you?"

Rayla nodded.

It was an unspoken apology.

It was clever. He too, knew that people were watching them, listening to them.

_Again. He meant to say that he didn't think he would see me again._

"I could say the same to ye," she told him softly, hoping he could see through the fake indignation that she'd stressed.

"Your people, then," Callum said slowly. "Why are you here? For them?"

Rayla held his gaze for a long while, portraying an inner battle over whether or not to tell him what she was about to disclose. Ultimately, she nodded her head.

"My uncle," she breathed. "Ah'm doing this for him. He's sick, and he got help for a while, but he's sick again." She willed him to understand, not daring to expose how indebted she truly was to her stranger. "Ah'm doing this for him."

Red crept across her face.

Why were her eyes getting blurry?

"Ah'm going to win for him," she told Callum, her tongue rolling between the last two words. Despite everything, Rayla's emotions were getting the better of her, meaning the accent she'd adopted from her da was getting thicker.

But there was some sense of silent understanding that Callum was affirming. There had to be.

"I watched the reapings. Ah . . . Ah'm sorry about yer brother."

Rayla wanted to say so much more than that. She wanted to show Callum the way she honestly felt, she wanted him to hear it in her voice. Inwardly, she cursed, knowing that possible mentors could be dismissing her faith with every passing word.

A day into the Games' official training and she was already modeling weakness.

"I'm going to win for him," Callum seemed to recite. It wasn't displayed visually, but Rayla had heard his voice like this before. On the edge of tears.

She nodded her head. "Ah'm Rayla."

"Rayla," Callum echoed.

Taking the chance that a gamemaker or mentor truly presumed that Rayla and Callum had met before, they would see that Callum was not acting now. He hadn't dreamed up any pho names for the girl he'd helped - he hadn't dared. No matter their conversation beforehand; it hadn't mattered in the sense that they could be looking for.

These volunteers didn't know each other.

Callum's eyes sundered away from Rayla's, trailed over her emblems and rested on her hands. He was lost in his head, thinking, planning, reflecting.

"Callum," Rayla said gently.

Like the mention of his brother's name on the day of his reaping, Callum's head snapped back up to Rayla's level. His lips were parted like he was about to say something, his expression wondrous and addled.

For too many seconds, they stared at each other.

"We ought to be training. Come with, let's no' stay here anymore," Rayla suggested, already beginning to walk towards the rest of the tributes.

"Okay, Rayla."

* * *

More weapons than she could fathom were in the training center. Flat touchscreens melded into the walls, where some tributes were showing off their book smarts to hidden mentors. Two groups of the same Careers were sparring with each other. Off to the side, a few more Careers were throwing knives and climbing walls with fake rocks jutting out of them.

Rayla and Callum stood side by side, unsure of where to go or what to look at. Never once had they had so many options.

District 1's Peacekeepers were perched in the many corners of the room, bold-faced and armed.

Callum glanced at Rayla, who could only smile in what she knew presented as requital.

"Go find something you're good at, Nine," she told him. "We'll be seeing each other around."

Another sentence that only they could read between the lines of. Another promise without uttering the word "promise."

Retreating to the numbed state of being Rayla had adopted from District 1, she began exhibiting her skills for her unchosen mentor. Many of the tributes rotated throughout the center, enabling Rayla various chances to use whatever part of the tutelage she desired. So she wordlessly demonstrated to everyone watching that she could start a fire and keep it going for however long she wished, identify almost every plant and herb that the center granted her, track animals of erratic sizes, and use the stars as a map.

By the time she moved onto weaponry, Rayla was starting to feel back at home, imagining Runaan and Tide beside her, reminding her how each armament was forged and how to use it effectively. There were pocket knives, axes, dual blades, bows and arrows, slingshots, hooked swords, and far more that Rayla had never faced before. No matter, she displayed her talents with the different types of weapons to the very best of her ability, hoping it would be enough.

Lastly, she knew she had to spar. Hand-to-hand combat was something she'd been training in since Runaan had permitted it. What she didn't plan on was a Career challenging her to the ring, though.

Olympia, a seventeen-year-old from District 4, saw Rayla eyeing the empty mats and quickly caught on to what the volunteer was pondering.

"Want me to call a friend?" she teased with a grin, stepping into the ring and bouncing on her feet excitably.

This girl matched Rayla quite well. Each was about the same height (though Olympia had two inches on Rayla). Both of them had similar builds and smarts. Even their hair color resembled each other's.

"I'll be yer friend," Rayla announced, matching the girl's grin.

Behind them, a handful of Careers and lower district tributes alike snickered and halted briefly to watch.

Rayla positioned herself so she was leaning all of her weight onto her toes, curling her fingers into fists and swinging her head to toss her stray tendrils behind her ears.

"Alright, Untamed. If you stand firm against me, I'll talk to my friends about letting you join us. Don't think we haven't been watching you."

For whatever reason, Rayla nearly turned her head to see Callum's reaction to the Career's suggestion. When she caught herself though, she merely shook her head and smirked.

"I never said I wanted to join ye. I just want to see where I stand with ye."

Olympia ducked her head and lost her grin, nodding. "Alright. I won't hold back."

Keeping her word, the Career girl shot to one side, attempting to throw Rayla off before she dodged at her. Runaan had taught Rayla to mind every possible consequence though, which saved her from Olympia's first strike.

District 12's volunteer ducked and swerved, punting out her foot to drive into the back of Olympia's knee. She quickly adjusted her balance to her other foot and faced her opponent with a lively glare, distracting Rayla so she could land a punch to her chin.

Letting her jaw go limp, Rayla shook out her hands and balled them up into fists again, aiming for Olympia's cheek and then kneeing her in the stomach, hopping away and landing back beside her.

Two headlocks, one close sprain, and countless bruises later, they split apart. The Career had won, but Rayla hadn't given up. She was currently standing on quivering legs, shuffling from right to left to get out of Olympia's reach. Never waving a white flag though, never admitting her defeat.

"I'll stop before I really hurt you. Like the administrator said, we can save this for the real deal, because you won't be joining us."

It wasn't yet a fact, only a dare. Olympia was raising both her eyebrows, staring down at Rayla questionably.

"Ah'll see ye in the real ring, then."

"I'll put up a better fight."

Rayla smiled, her mind racing. Beneath her sprightly demeanor she was fretting over what had just happened. Of course the Careers would make her their target if she didn't enlist with them. They weren't comparable to her, though. Rayla wasn't a cold-blooded killer, even if that's what it took to win the Games.

Runaan had taught her better than that. She would find another way to win.

"As will I."

* * *

There were no clocks nor windows in this level of the Training Center. None of the tributes had any grasp of how much time had passed, though it felt like hours.

If anything, Rayla found herself growing exhausted and bored. Had the mentors really been watching them this long? How long had "this long" really been?

Despite her efforts to avoid him, Rayla watched Callum out of the corner of her eye and he did the same to her. Perhaps, after however many hours had lapsed, District 9's volunteer took Rayla's reiterating gaze as an invitation, because he walked over to her with his head down.

Callum didn't shine like her or the Careers. He came from a lower district and it showed. Weaponry, simulations, identification, none of it came easily to the volunteer. None of it seemed to come to him at all, in fact. For all the hours that had endured, he'd only been familiarizing himself with the center, wandering around and taking in all that he could.

But Rayla could see that the wheels in his mind were spinning. He was memorizing and devising. Something wise kept him from looking directly at Rayla when he approached her.

_His strength lay in his mind._

"Ye shouldn't be near me," Rayla rasped.

Callum looked from her to the other tributes, wondering if she had intended to growl her words.

"I didn't even know your name until today," he reassured her. There was no smile playing on his lips, but there was a friendly glint in his eyes. "I've never met someone like you, an Untamed. Let me make use of my newfound knowledge."

They were talking between the lines again.

"We're good, Rayla. Plus, it's not unnatural for us to start making alliances."

He was watching her closely, studying her features to gauge her reaction. Silent seconds idled before Rayla gave a curt nod.

"Aye, with our district partners or Careers." She shifted her stare to his, taking the fortuity to study _his _features this time. "We're a bit . . . different."

"Tributes have done it before," Callum pointed out. "We're the same, really, with your Kin and my Coalition."

Reality found its way to Rayla, then. It was burning cold, flooding into her bloodstream and echoing behind her every thought.

"The end won't be different."

She lowered her head.

_It's useless, pointless even if it's a smart plan. Why go through this loss again, if I can help it?_

Callum put his hand on hers, drawing her back to him. Unforgotten memories flickered between them. Rayla thought she'd forgotten the feel of his hand on hers. She had forgotten the sensations, but the emotions that had stirred inside of her flowered out again, and she realized that she'd been longing for this unnamed sentiment since they'd parted.

_Stupid, stupid. How can I be so stupid? How can _he _be so stupid, to do this in front of an audience?_

If the gamemakers hadn't been watching, if the tributes hadn't been observing their prey, Rayla would have pulled away.

If they had been alone, she would have blithely stayed, allowed her gaze to linger on her blanketed hand. Undoubtedly she would try to make sense of what she was feeling, and ask if he was feeling the same way.

But the reality prickling at her skin kept her stare straight ahead and her limbs still.

Rayla wasn't sure if Callum could read any of this.

His grip endured comfortably. "I'll do this for you, if you do it for me," he told her. "Rayla?"

A long, uncomfortable halt. Too many questions to filter through. And then a desperate, ardent reaction.

Another curt not, another enduring squeeze, and it was decided.

They were allies. They were going to fight for each other.


	10. Taking Trust

_Please don't let us die for each other._

Nothing else rang in his mind. There was nothing - nobody - he could focus on that didn't stem back to her.

Was it fate that brought them together a second time? Why had they met a second time? How was this even possible?

Callum didn't know the answers to any of these questions, but he knew they couldn't die for each other. They couldn't die, period.

Growing up within the Coalition, everyone had detested the Games. That was something that had never been disputed. Each tribute had a life, a family and friends. Tributes weren't two-week stars to be aired throughout the districts, they were real people. They had aspirations and hopes for their lives. (Most of the upper district tributes' aspirations were to win the Games, but nonetheless, they were still people.)

_Everyone deserves better than that,_ is what Amaya had taught Callum and Ezran.

Now, when he thought back to Amaya enlightening him with the knowledge that everyone deserves a genuine chance at life, Callum wielded the statement in a new light.

Had Amaya not been treated like a real person because of the Games? At this point in time, all those years ago, what had she been feeling and thinking?

His heart ached for her. These were things he wished so badly that he could ask her now.

Had she ever been a mentor? If she had, Callum selfishly wished that she would have stayed a mentor until Ezran had rejoiced on his nineteenth birthday. Then they would all be safe.

_But then what would've happened to Rayla?_

Even though he knew he wasn't much, Callum still wanted to be here for her. To protect her and shield her.

_Is this why Amaya started the Coalition? To protect people and shield them? Did she feel this way towards the people in her Game?_

_Did she start the Coalition because she couldn't save them from the Games? Has my whole life been built upon grief?_

Something hollow and despairing was kindling inside of Callum.

_Am I about to repeat the process?_

Beside him, Freya grunted.

All of the tributes were lined up again, pretending they didn't feel the rancor strewing from the training administrator as she looked over them. Freya had grunted to call Callum back from his mind, to remind him to stand up straight and look like a real threat.

It didn't work.

District 9's volunteer was still dwelling on his never-ending questions, revising his expression into that of confusion and exasperation. Only when the administrator stepped in front of him, did he blank his expression.

"Did anyone on your mother's side ever tell you that it's easier to break down boys, rather than build up men, tribute?"

Callum shook his head without making eye contact, stammering the word "no."

The administrator seemed to glare at him for another moment, before strolling farther down the line.

"It's a precise practice that never fails. Peacekeepers are made Peacekeepers through this practice. I was born from this practice. Some of you have an idea of what I'm talking about," she said, glancing at the front of the line. "Others will never experience it."

Her eyes were on the lower district tributes.

"Two weeks is not enough time to execute the practice, but tributes, it is not up to me whether or not you will receive it. Your mentors are the ones who will decide."

With that, she turned around and stalked back to the center of the room, looking up at the upper-level balconies.

"Tributes," a new voice boomed through the PA system. "Go to the third floor. There you will find a room with the same number as your quarters. Enter it, and say hello to your mentor. You will be permitted one hour with them. When the time is up, go back to your quarters."

Some tributes had begun whispering to one another. The administrator snapped her finger and silence followed.

"Tomorrow you meet your mentors here at seven sharp. From then on, they will decide your routine. Have a nice evening, tributes. May the odds be ever in your favor."

Too soon, the front of the line was moving. Careers departed with whoops and hollers while middle district tributes tailed with hushed voices and eager eyes.

Freya appeared to be glaring at Callum, but he could tell that she wasn't directing her anger at him. She'd been mad ever since they'd gotten into the Capitol.

Meanwhile, Callum had been a bundle of anxiety ever since they'd gotten into the Capitol. His heart never stopped pounding, echoing inside his head. His breathing was always too shallow and his palms were sticky with sweat even though trembles continuously strained his body.

Freya was a nice contrast compared to him. She didn't say much, but she looked out for him when he needed it. Like now.

"What's with you?" she was asking him impatiently. "They'll follow us too, we're all going to the same place."

But Callum couldn't stop staring at his stranger.

Rayla noticed this, and nodded her head at him. She could tell he was scared. She was, too. Who would want to mentor an Untamed?

"Why did she ask about your mother's side?"

Another unfamiliar voice distracted Callum long enough for Freya to tug on his arm and get him to step in sequence with her.

"Is she related to you or something?"

The tribute behind him, the girl from Ten, was frowning at him in question. Her cheeks and nose were dotted in freckles that were as orange as her hair.

"I-I don't know," he lied. "I thought it was a figure of speech here?"

Scowling, the girl backpedaled her question when the tributes had to pile into two large elevators. When they ascended to the third floor, everyone went their separate ways, searching for the room with their assigned number bolted onto it.

Number one was the first girl from District 1 and number twenty-four was the last boy from District 12, making Callum number eighteen.

Callum looked far down the hallway, locating the door with the number twenty-three printed on it, and saw Rayla preparing to enter. Her eyes were narrowed into a glare but alight with apprehension.

Trying to channel her ferocity, District 9's volunteer sauntered towards his assigned room. Quieting his anxieties proved to be futile. By the time he reached the barrier between him and his mentor, everyone had disappeared into their own rooms.

Callum fumbled at the door, hesitating, trying not to look back at the Peacekeepers who were lined along the opposite side of the hallway. Surely they were sneering at his conundrum. Why had he stalled so long? Now he had no idea what to do.

There was no doorknob on the door, but a jutting, vertical bar that was intended to be grabbed and . . . what, exactly?

_Pushed? Pulled?_

While he limply wound his fingers around the bar, he thought he could hear pattering footsteps approaching in front of him. Without warning, the door was yanked open (telling Callum that he would've had to push), pulling him along with it.

His mentor stood before him, evidently even more excited than he was nervous. Callum let go of the door and stepped back, his eyes wide.

_The President's daughter,_ he recognized numbly._ Last year's Victor. She's right here, right in front of me. She . . . she chose me?_

"I'm Claudia!"

"Claudia," Callum reprised in a haze.

Green eyes were something that both tribute and mentor shared, but that seemed to be it.

His mentor was respectfully taller than him, although currently she was wearing heeled boots that resulted in her towering over him. Both of her ears had been pierced three times, once through her earlobe and twice at the top of her ear. There was also one ring in the side of her nose and one at end of her left eyebrow. There had to be a word aside from "dark" to epitomize her style, but Callum couldn't place it. Shades of ebony melded into her long-sleeved attire. Her hair reached the small of her back and was naturally black and professionally straightened, albeit dip-dyed violet at the end. All of the hues somehow balanced against her pale skin and brazen-red lipstick.

_Blood-red lipstick._

But Claudia's smile was ecstatic and genuine, happy enough to reassure Callum that he was inviolable, had he not known about her background and watched her earn her title of Victor.

Before the Peacekeepers could push him inside, Claudia beckoned Callum closer and turned around to kick the door shut.

"You're Callum, right? I can't tell you how happy I am to be your mentor!" she exclaimed, grabbing one of his hands and shaking it.

"R-really?" was all he could stammer.

Claudia ended the handshake and put her hands on her hips, shooting him a regaling grin.

"Yes, really! Come here, sit down. I remember the first day being so rough, with all the strutting and waiting."

Two pear-green, backless sofas were arranged in the middle of the bare room. Between them was a short, rectangular glass table topped in food and drink. Claudia guided Callum to one of the cushioned benches and ordered him to sit, then took her place across from him.

There was no awkward silence or frenzied planning that ensued. Nothing that Callum had anticipated began to occur, which might have worried him even more.

Claudia's energy was lively and bright and frankly draining to the volunteer. She hadn't given him her prevailing impression on screen. During her run in the Games she had been somewhat upbeat, but never this happy. Always thinking positive and coming up with creative solutions, but again, not like this.

Callum didn't know a Victor could be so authentically _happy_.

"Do you want any water or snacks? They gave us a meat and cheese board." She furrowed her brow. "I can't have any - I'm vegan - so if you want some, it's all yours!"

_Vegan?_

Callum gaped at her. This Victor, this teenage girl, was alright with killing people just to win a game, but drew a line at eating meat?

_How . . . how does she even justify that?_

"I snatched you before the other mentors could even blink," Claudia started to inform him. "But watching you in the Training Center, I didn't expect you to be so different from your aunt."

"Right," Callum mumbled. He slouched in his seat.

Now it made sense. Now he knew why she chose him.

"Amaya, she was, uh, in the Games before, too."

"She wasn't just in the games, she was a Victor in the Games! Why don't you look happy about that?" Claudia crossed her legs and propped her chin up on one of her hands, frowning sincerely.

Callum didn't like her undivided attention. It should have felt threatening and unnerving, but it didn't. It felt normal. Like she really cared. Every expression and tone of voice was telling him that she really cared.

_Is this how she won her Game?_

"She never told us about her history in the Games. I didn't know about any of it until Reaping Day, after I volunteered."

Claudia's pupils fanned wide and her mouth might as well have been hanging open.

"Wait, no, seriously? Why wouldn't she tell you? She's one of the most memorable Victors! Did you know that she was the youngest one?"

"I think . . . she just wanted to forget about it ever happening. But yeah, it's hard to believe any younger tribute would have survived the Games."

"She didn't survive the Games, Callum, she won them!" Claudia was smiling again, tilting her head fondly. "I'll show you all of the clips from her year. It will be like she's right here with you, teaching you."

That made Callum mirror her expression. "I'd love that. Thanks, Claudia."

Claudia nodded her head cheerily and then narrowed her gaze. "Now, that does change things. Here I thought you've known about Amaya's victory all your life. Best case scenario, she would have been mentoring you in secret." She lowered her voice. "Your family's Coalition, though. What's the deal with that?"

Callum reddened, wondering why his mentor was even attempting to quiet herself at all. Every room in the Capitol was riddled with concealed microphones and cameras. Callum almost took offense when Claudia believed him to think otherwise.

Surprisingly though, Claudia immediately realized what her tribute was contemplating.

"None of these rooms are bugged, Callum. Mentors are here to make our tributes Victors through any means necessary. And this is where that magic happens, right? Nobody wants to learn the secrets behind a trick, they just want a good show."

Claudia was still smiling, waving her hands around with every word, but Callum could read how austere she was.

The Games was a show. It didn't matter to the gamemakers how tributes strived to win as long as they made it look flashy and dramatic. Thankfully Claudia already knew this. Thankfully she didn't treat the Games like everyone else. She didn't lie to her tribute about how it was a great honor to be here. She didn't pretend to feign indifference.

Twenty seconds ago, Callum would have never believed her. She was getting him to trust him, though. He could see that she was serious.

This was a game, and she wanted her tribute to win.

Still, Victor Claudia was different from the President's daughter Claudia. That still panicked Callum enough to want to restrict how much he told her.

"Are you sure?" he couldn't help but ask.

Maybe it was the relief of knowing that there were no cameras in the room, maybe it was the fact that he was veraciously starting to trust Claudia, or maybe he was just too spent to care, but Callum wasn't trying to look brave anymore. He didn't know how to hide the anxiety that was heavy in his voice.

"What about your dad? President Viren?"

A passively annoyed look crossed Claudia's expression and she rolled her eyes. "He doesn't have a say in how I mentor my tribute. Even if he did listen in on our conversations, he wouldn't be able to stop me. He's President, not a gamemaker."

Most of what she said was heartening.

"Is . . . is his friend still Head Gamemaker?"

"Aaravos? Yeah, why?" Claudia thought for a moment. "No, _no,_ Callum. I'm your mentor. I will protect you. It's my job to make you Victor and I will stop at nothing to make that happen. I promise."

The two were quiet for a long moment.

"Our Coalition isn't an uprising. We're just trying to help people. So many children don't have parents or homes. You wouldn't believe how many elderly people are abandoned the moment they can't contribute to society. The same goes for sick and injured people. A lot of families who are lucky enough to have each other don't have anything else. Not enough food or safe water or shelter. We help them."

"That's wonderful, Callum. We'll make sure to mention that in your interview, it'll really tug on some heartstrings."

Callum instantly grimaced. Part of his fear was giving way to aggravation.

"I-I'm not trying to make people like me, Claudia. What I said was really the truth."

Callum's mentor had her eyes slit in concentration and her fingers drumming a steady rhythm on her leg. "Oh yes, I know, and it helps you a lot. You want people to be on your side. You want sponsors. You know all this." Then she mumbled, "It's hard enough that your aunt is Victor Amaya."

Aggravation bubbled up inside of Callum faster now. "What? Why? That should make things easier. I'm related to a Victor. I've got the genes to win."

"No, no," Claudia began, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "The Capitol could never sponsor Amaya, they never approved of her. Callum, she wasn't exactly supposed to win. Not that there's a plan on who will win, but usually we have an idea, right?" She chuckled bitterly. "A deaf, nine-year-old from a lower district was never even considered. With good reason too, because her victory should've never happened. You may have the genes to win, Callum, but don't do it the way she did. You won't make it. People don't like surprises. Just play the Games and stay safe, in all respects. Do you understand?"

"Give the people what they want," Callum summarized in a monotone voice. "Don't make them feel stupid."

"Yes! Exactly. They want to root for someone they can see themselves in. So don't be bloodthirsty, but don't be a coward. You have to try twice as hard as the other tributes. Sponsors are going to be afraid of you because of Amaya," she told him quietly. "Don't rely on her to win. You need to become your own person if you want to be Victor. I won't let you rely on anyone else."

Her last sentence made Callum look up from where he'd set his gaze. He found that Claudia was already staring at him studiously. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and glanced away.

"I won't make it on my own."

"That's why you're here, Callum. I'll teach you what you need to know."

Another long silence.

"I've already allied," he said.

There was another inaudible pause as Claudia gathered herself, recrossing her legs and folding her hands together.

"Yes, I thought I saw something like that happen today. The Untamed from Twelve, right?"

Callum flicked his gaze back up at Claudia, taken aback to hear something like disgust in her voice.

"Yeah, her."

"You're smart, Callum. From the second you walked in, I could see you picking apart this place. Studying your fellow tributes and watching what they excel at and where they lack." Claudia exhaled deeply. "The problem with an alliance is that whoever you team up with can make you look bad. Whatever they do, whatever they are, it reflects onto you."

"She'll stand out, I know that. But I will too, because of Amaya. We could really be something if we play our cards right. People will already be watching us, so why not give them a good show?"

When Claudia didn't interject, Callum went on.

"She's strong. I know you were supposed to be watching me, but you noticed her too, right? She held her own against a Career, Claudia. She's got real survival skills and practice with weapons. I bet if she had been born in an upper district, she could have been a Career."

"I don't doubt that. She's from the lowest district though, Callum. She's an Untamed. Not trustworthy and not liked by anyone. People will be watching her from the start, yeah, but not in a good way. Untameds aren't supposed to exist. The fact that she volunteered for the Games tells me she's suicidal. Gamemakers will give her Hell from the start."

"She signed up to save her uncle, she didn't have another choice," Callum snapped. "She wants to win for him."

A familiar voice blared through the PA system.

"Mentors and tributes, this is your five-minute warning."

Claudia didn't seem to hear it. "She'll be targeted. I can't let you go down with her."

"She'll make it to the end, I know she will," Callum prompted.

"It doesn't matter if she makes it to the end or not. Only one of you is getting out alive," Claudia told him in a hushed, strained voice.

Callum endeavored not to show the nerve he was feeling. "You think I don't know that?"

"I think your head is in the clouds. I think that you need to start thinking like a Victor, not a tribute. I need you to trust me, Callum."

"You won't even trust me!"

"I've been through this before, I know what works and what doesn't. I know you're smarter than you're letting on." She sighed, clenching and unclenching her jaw. It seemed to ground her, because when she spoke again, her voice was soft and pleading. "I need you to trust me enough to tell me what you're thinking, Callum."

"I don't know!" he exploded. "This, this hasn't all sunk in yet! I don't want to be here, Claudia. I'm not like you. I didn't volunteer to win, I volunteered to save Ezran. I don't think the Games are just. Every one of us has a life and family and friends. Why does one person deserve to live more than another? Why do they do this to teenagers, _children,_ of all people! We have our whole lives ahead of us, we have everything to lose."

"It makes for a better Game," Claudia advised him gently. She gazed at the digital clock above the door and didn't look away. "It's time you stopped thinking that way, though. It's too late for that. Unless you can channel it to win the Games, drop it, because it's not going to get you anywhere."

"I'm not getting anywhere without Rayla, anyway. Please, Claudia, you're my mentor and I need you to trust me."

Claudia was quiet for a while, letting her eyelids fall before she spoke. Her voice was weary and raw. "You're my first tribute, Callum. I just want you to survive."

Callum shifted to the edge of his seat, nodding his head and smiling in a heartening fashion. "I will survive. I promised my brother and my dad that I would. Claudia, I want to make you the mentor of a Victor. You just have to trust me, too."

Claudia stared at him soundlessly, emotionlessly. "Fine." Another exhale. "I'll trust you."

"Mentors and tributes, your time is up. Return to your quarters at once."

Claudia stood up and walked quickly over to Callum. "I'll meet you on the training level tomorrow morning at seven. Don't be late." She took his hand and shook it, helping him up. "I'm excited to be your mentor, really. You need to trust me now too, though. I believe I can make you Victor, Callum."

A Peacekeeper was opening the door to the room. Claudia steered Callum towards it. He looked back and smiled at her gratefully.

"Thank you, Claudia."

* * *

Flukes or fates must have been on their side, because Callum and Rayla were synchronously pushed beside each other on the elevator ride up to their quarters.

"Your mentor?" Rayla breathed without looking at him.

Their arms were touching and the rough sway of the elevator threatened to make both of them sick.

"Claudia," Callum managed. His eyes flitted up to hers for a millisecond. She was already staring at him, mouth agape.

"She's not as bloodthirsty as the Games made her out to be - she's already looking out for me," he informed Rayla. "I think she's going to be a good mentor."

When Rayla failed to respond, Callum nudged her softly. He wanted to change the subject. Something about Rayla's reaction made him feel uneasy. "Who's your mentor?"

"Soren."

"S-Soren?" Callum sputtered.

Rayla swallowed and nodded her head. She looked just as perturbed as him.

_Why?_ Callum thought. _Claudia chose me because of Amaya. Rayla isn't related to a Victor, right? Why would he choose her?_

"He's no' as serious as I thought," Rayla murmured. "He's cocky and coorse. I don't think he likes me," she went on, no longer looking at Callum, but scowling at the ground.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but why did he choose you, then?"

"I don't know. He hasn't yet said," Rayla whispered.

The elevator dinged. Little by little, the tributes wedged past each other. Callum and Rayla stuck close together in the hallway. They bowed their heads to keep their words a secret.

"I can ask Claudia about it," Callum offered.

"No," Rayla nearly hissed.

"It's okay, Rayla." The back of Callum's hand touched hers. "I told Claudia about us. A-about our alliance."

Rayla was quiet. That was far too many things to reflect on. Not enough time. Callum's door was only a yard away.

"Ah'm goin' to be at the training setup at six-thirty. Ah'll be by the survival stands." She raised her head in level with Callum's as they approached his door. "Ah'll talk to ye then?"

"Sounds like a plan." Callum smiled at her. "Have a good night, Rayla."

Rayla told herself not to linger at his door while she neared it. She tried to smile back at her ally.

_My stranger._

"Ye as well, Callum."

* * *

"She's going to ruin my life. She's going to ruin my title," he spat. "Why would he do this to me?"

"He did the same thing to me-"

"That's different. You don't get it."

Behind the windows, the sun was setting, casting cotton candy colors across the length of the sky. It was another humid day. Too hot to bear, so the two hid inside.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." He bowed his chin and glowered.

"It's fine, Soren." Claudia reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. He only sighed, turning away from her.

"I've chosen good tributes in the past, haven't I?"

Claudia didn't counter her brother, attempting to veil her grimace.

Yes, Soren had chosen formidable tributes in the past, although that didn't mean any of them had ever survived to be Victor.

"He owes me this, Claudia," Soren grieved. His lips were drawn back and Claudia wasn't sure if the action was the beginning of a snarl or a sob. "He owes me. I deserve more than this."

Strained silence bloomed between siblings.

_"I made him who he is."_

"Soren," Claudia rasped. "Enough, please. It's just one Game."

"It's your first Game as Victor, Claudia! You, of all people, deserve more than this. After the Victory Tour you went through, you deserve to be rewarded by choosing your own tribute for the next Game. I-it's always been that way. I don't care if he's President, he shouldn't be able to take that away from anyone."

Claudia remained silent for many heartbeats. "Don't do this, Soren. Your tribute can't be that bad."

Even Claudia could hear the lie lacing her words.

The shadow in Soren's eyes got darker when he spoke. "There's no sense in that. She could be the best tribute yet, but she's an Untamed, and that will cost her everything." The Victor shook his head and stood up. "I'm going to the Victors' Platform. I need to get rid of this energy. Have a good night, Claudia."

With that, he stormed outside, unable to bear being inside his father's home any longer.

Claudia simply hung her head, vowing to get through to Callum, who would inevitably get through to that Untamed.


	11. Tiptoe, Train, Taunt

**Season three released since my last chapter! I saw the perfect opportunity to switch Jeden's name to Kasef because they are quire alike. So from now on, Rayla's brother tribute Jeden will now be called Kasef. When I get the chance, I will change it in previous chapters, but until then, I hope this clears up some future confusion.**

**Also, a big thanks to Film Theory on YouTube because without the videos "How to Survive the Hunger Games" parts one and two, Callum would be a lot less smart in this story.**

**And a big thanks to all of you for the views, comments, and favorites on this story! It truly makes me ecstatic to see that people are liking my crossover. I hope you enjoy the latest chapter!**

* * *

To Rayla, the world had always been black and white. Black _or _white. Good or bad. Just or unjust.

(After her eighth birthday, Rayla recognized the world to be unjust.)

Now though, gray was everywhere. Callum was gray. Rayla herself was gray, because she wanted to live, which meant that she needed Callum to die. It meant that she wanted every one of her fellow tributes to die in one of the worst ways possible.

In turn, it would mean that Runaan would get help. He would live. Dhara's Kin would be blessed with food and medicine; her family could be happy again.

_But at what cost?_

"Hey, Rayla."

District 12's volunteer turned around to see Callum strolling towards her, smiling softly. After a quick glance at one of the multiple digital clocks, Rayla realized her ally was early. It was only 6:23 in the morning.

Then again, Rayla had arrived at the survival stand twenty-three minutes earlier.

"Callum," Rayla greeted him.

He looked . . . happy-ish. Not quite carefree, but definitely not like a tribute about to train for the Games.

"Claudia told me something," he began merrily. "There aren't any secret cameras or microphones on the third floor and training level. I'm not sure about our quarters, but still, isn't that great? We don't have to hide things here."

"You're not jokin'?" Rayla crossed her arms.

"Honest! Um, I never knew Amaya was a Victor. See?"

Rayla faltered. "What?"

"Gamemakers would use it against me that I didn't know about Amaya's victory. But they can't listen in on this level of the Center." District 9's volunteer grinned. "Get it?"

"Alright . . . but who's Amaya?"

This time it was Callum's turn to falter. "Victor Amaya," he stammered. Somehow the words felt anomalous on his tongue. "You don't know about her? She's - she's my aunt."

Dismay swept across Rayla's features. She abandoned her rigid stance and took a step back. "Yer aunt was a Victor?"

Looking just as distraught as Rayla, Callum followed her. "Yes, but I didn't know! She told me after I volunteered. I never knew about it."

Rayla thought for a moment. She furrowed her brow and darted her eyes back and forth, putting the pieces together. When she looked back up at her ally, Callum saw dread and remorse in her expression.

"They can use that against ye?"

Callum tried to reach out so he could lay a hand on her shoulder, or maybe grab her hand, but the fear in her eyes stopped him instantly. He readjusted his stance.

"If they knew, they could. That's why I'm telling you this, Rayla. These levels aren't bugged. They won't find out what you know."

Rayla's mind was still whirling. She wanted to sit down. "What are ye sayin'?"

"I'm saying that we can plan something here. Claudia told me that she would allow me to watch Amaya's clips. That could help us a lot."

It was still taking Rayla a while to adapt to the Games. She had to get used to the idea of her fellow tributes dying. Of Callum getting killed.

Far back in her mind, she had begun to wonder who would kill him. If he would try to kill her before she was forced to-

"Rayla?"

His hand was on her shoulder now, bolstering and grounding.

Rayla nodded her head.

"Aye, tha'll help us a lot. Did ye know her strategy for winnin'?"

Callum turned around, feigning interest in the survival stand. Unconsciously, or perhaps more consciously than she'd like to admit, Rayla grew lonely without her ally's hand reassuring her.

"No. It was an underdog strategy, I'm guessing. She was really young when she was reaped. She's deaf too, so I don't think people had high hopes for her."

"That's a strategy in itself," Rayla commented. "She taught ye to sign, then?"

Callum faced Rayla, a hint of a smile buried within his face.

_Yes._

Rayla's grin only broadened. "If ye teach me some, we could communicate without alertin' the others. We could speak in the open wi'out bein' heard."

"Yes!" Callum said and signed at the same time. "I don't really think anyone else in our Game would know how." He tapped his fingers against his leg insipidly. "How about I teach you the alphabet? You could sign anything you want, then."

"Alright!"

"You should learn some simple phrases though, in case there's an emergency. Like 'danger' and 'watch out' and 'stop' and 'go.'"

Ambition was bursting inside Rayla at the rate of the bullet train that had transported her here. "Smart, aye." Her eyes gleamed. "Thank ye, Callum."

Maybe it was their abrupt chance at survival or the elation he was seeing in Rayla for the first time. Maybe it was the way she was exposing her trust in him or even the way she had said his name. Either way, Callum felt his heart fumble a beat, as if it were mounted in his throat for a millisecond, only to come hurtling down to resume hammering against his chest.

He forced his hand flat, palm facing himself, and moved four extended fingers from his chin downward. Rayla copied the motion wordlessly.

_Thank you._

_Thank you._

Somewhere deep within his consciousness, Callum desperately hoped that he wouldn't be there to see her die in the arena.

* * *

Family was everything. This was just another thing Rayla had learned at a young age.

Rayla wouldn't be here if she didn't want to save her uncles.

Callum wouldn't be here if he didn't want to save his brother.

Claudia and Soren wouldn't be here if their father hadn't fostered them the desire.

_Perhaps._

These two Victors were forged for the Games. They were primed for them. Before they were Victors, they were Careers, and before that, Rayla didn't know. Had they had a lavish childhood in their upper district home? Had they ever had the chance of continuing that life?

Claudia was bright and deceitful. Being the Victor of last year's Game, she was new, too. Though not unversed, for Soren had won his Game three years before.

And immediately after Soren earned his title of Victor, Viren earned his title of President.

_Earned isn't the right word, _Rayla reminded herself. _They _took _those titles. There is no earning here, only taking._

Watching Claudia train Callum was enlightening. She was truly working with him, advising him and demonstrating to him what she knew. Currently, she appeared to be quizzing him on throwing knives, presenting the most effective way to use them against the other tributes and then allowing him to give it a go.

Soren wasn't as patient as his sister. The first thing he did as mentor was demand that Rayla tell him every one of her weaknesses (which wasn't something that she felt like sharing with a stranger).

Currently, he was striving to see which Careers would best benefit her in the arena.

"Yer no' listenin'," Rayla grumbled to him. "I don't want to join the Career pack."

"You're not listening to me," Soren shot back. He pointed a finger in the Careers' direction. "You won't make it without them. You need them."

"I've already-"

"Look, no offense to Claudia, but this is only her first year being a mentor. Nobody raises a Victor their first time, and she's already told me that you and her tribute allied." He glared. "That tribute isn't going to get far. Why would you want to ally with him?"

Rayla clenched her jaw. "He's smart. Winnin' is in his blood."

"Winning isn't about blood," Soren countered. When he saw the look Rayla was giving him, he glowered. "It's about odds. You've heard that presage, right? May the odds be ever in your favor?"

"That's just somethin' they say to-"

"No, Rayla, they're telling you how to win. Focus on your odds and go from there."

"The odds of Careers turnin' on me are greater if I'm always with them," Rayla spat.

"Your odds of survival are better in a pack."

"Then I've already got a few odds because I've allied with Callum, right?"

Soren's fingers curled into fists.

"Not enough, Untamed."

* * *

That evening, dinner was strained for everyone but the Careers. With their mentors belatedly gone, the remaining tributes ate without speaking, trying to ignore the Careers' anticipated gloating.

Kasef's elbow kept clouting against Rayla's arm, but she knew it was no accident. Every time she lifted her head, he focused his glare on her and clenched his jaw until a vein lining his neck became visible. How Rayla wished she could have shown him his place, shown him how much more experience she had in this crisis than he did.

But fighting was not permitted until the Games commenced. Then, and only then, would they truly have something to fight about.

(Rayla was ashamed to want to win against her brother tribute. She was terrified that winning would soon be synonymous with killing.)

On their way back to their quarters, Callum pointed something out to her.

Food in the Capitol was far too lavish to enjoy. If anything, Rayla had lost weight since she'd left her home.

"You should eat more," he whispered.

When Rayla dared to glance at him, she saw him redden.

"Not like, in an offensive way, I just mean that it'll help you if you eat."

"Really?" Sarcasm laced her voice; Rayla shook her head. "I have been eatin', it's just not the same here. Nothin' feels right anymore."

"We aren't eating for taste anymore, we're eating to survive. We have to prepare for the arena."

If impending threats hadn't been surrounding them, Rayla would have snapped at Callum. Her Kin had never wasted any part of a plant or animal - they couldn't afford to squander what finite food they could provide for themselves. How could he think that she'd ever eaten just for taste?

"We don't know what this arena will be like, but we do know that in the previous arenas, it's been hard to get food," Callum said.

"Aye, everyone knows that."

"So you know that before that, you have to eat a lot. I think it's called carbo-loading. For every day that we're in the arena, we'll be burning thousands of calories just to stay alive. Any fighting that ensues will burn more. Plus, we don't know what the weather will be like. If it's cold, we'll need to eat even more just to maintain healthy circulation."

Despite her frustration towards Callum for his earlier comments, Rayla was abruptly reminded why she chose him as an ally. Everything he was saying ought to have been common knowledge, but not common enough to force Rayla to sincerely think about it.

While she was busy focusing on the Careers and self-defense and combat, Callum had been preparing for the few things that they could control.

He seemed to be spiraling now, unaware of the stray hairs that had fallen to cover his narrowed gaze.

"We've got thirteen more days here and that's a good amount of time, right? If I remember correctly, we can go three weeks without food, but once you reach ten days, your body really starts to feel the effects of starvation. So if you were going to put on just five pounds before the arena, that's an extra seventeen thousand calories, which takes about eight days to break down. There's never a guarantee on how long a Game will last, but eight days could easily take us half of the way." Callum's smile faded when he jerked his head, looking up at Rayla. "A majority of the tributes die the first day, at the cornucopia. They're trying to get supplies and food and . . . it kills them. It would be better if we only had to worry about supplies."

Rayla stared at him, wishing she could think the way he did. She relented. "Aye. When the time comes, we'll only worry about supplies. That's a good plan, Callum."

As if he wasn't expecting the praise, Callum's cheeks flushed again. He dipped his head. "Well, thanks, Rayla. I just want to make things easy."

"Ye make things very easy, Callum," Rayla said with a grin. _Thank you_, she signed.

Callum smiled again, signing what Rayla guessed meant, "You're welcome."

Days melded together after that.

Meals were spent with fleeting eye contact and quick grins passed between Callum and Rayla. While everyone else was struggling to make small talk, they only worried about how many servings of seconds they could receive within the designated mealtime.

Soren leisurely proved to be useful, as well. When Rayla told him of her and Callum's plan to carbo-load, he agreed instantly. He even gave her instructions on which groups of foods to evade and which groups to gravitate towards.

On the training level of the building, Rayla's mentor advised her to focus only on building skills that derived the highest survival rates. She was to focus solely on increasing her odds.

"Knives never fail," Soren stated a few days into training. "Single-sided knives, daggers, and throwing blades are abundant in most Games."

"If I learn how to master them, that could triple my odds," Rayla discerned.

Soren nodded. "Exactly. They can be used as tools too, not just defense or offense."

"Of course. They can be used to hunt and trap, to fight back and . . . kill."

"And kill," Soren repeated in a voice far stronger than Rayla's.

Later, when Rayla was staring at two Careers grappling, Soren guided her away from them altogether.

"Don't. Wrestling, heavy weapon training, axe throwing - those kinds of drills only increase your metabolism. Besides," Soren went on, looking away from his tribute. "I've seen you spar before; you've got nothing to worry about."

In response, Rayla's eyes revealed the smile that her mouth could not form.

Eventually Callum and Rayla had united practices. Tribute worked with tribute, brother with sister, instead of against each other like Rayla had initially imagined.

Claudia was a perfect mentor for Callum, although she was even more wary of Rayla than Soren was. It was clear that she didn't trust her. (Soren didn't trust her either, but he viewed Rayla as a job instead of a person, which made it easier to deal with. Keeping her alive was all Soren needed to be concerned with. Claudia, on the other hand, appeared to care about Callum as if he had been her friend forever. She was far too sharp and secretive. Rayla wouldn't have been surprised if she was trying to pin Callum against her.)

Meanwhile, the more Rayla thought she was learning about Soren, the harder her mentor was to figure out. With her, Soren was reserved and serious, focusing only on mentoring. Rayla was his tribute and that was it. While Claudia and Callum formed a true bond, a sincere sense of trust between each other, Rayla and Soren remained a safe distance from each other.

When Soren interacted with his sister, though, Rayla saw a side of him that hadn't been aired to the districts. He was rather egotistical and badgering and yet . . . eager to prove himself.

Claudia's run in the districts had been her true self. She didn't seem to have the need to prove herself, for whatever reason.

Rayla wished that she could have known what had happened to these Victors beyond the cameras.

Nonetheless, when they all put their minds together, they succeeded in ways a single person couldn't have anticipated by themself. When Callum suggested that they need more survival skills, Soren recommended hunting methods and Claudia recommended learning how to identify edible (and non-edible) plants. Rayla taught Callum on how to build a fire and Callum ran through different scenarios with Rayla so they could calculate when it was appropriate to hide, run, and fight back. Together, they all set aside two days to practice running through rope courses, tree climbing, and camouflage.

They were a good team, and both volunteers apprehended the day they would all be split apart.

No other tributes showed interest in allying with Callum or Rayla, though. They had scared them off.

Meanwhile, three groups were cultivating: the Careers (made up of nine people, somehow including timidly-young Hunter and boondock-hailing Kasef), those who were admirable threats but not good enough to be Careers (their numbers varied by the day), and those who were too kindhearted for the Games (about six people).

Marie, a fourteen-year-old volunteer, and Rusto, a thirteen-year-old tribute, were both from District 11 and seemed to have the same idea as Callum and Rayla. They didn't socialize outside of their mentors and stylists. Marie and Rusto had allied with only each other, which proved to be enough.

_For now._

Rayla wondered if the other tributes saw Marie and Rusto as the same as her and Callum. District 11's female volunteer committed herself to protecting Rusto, a young boy whom she had no relation to. There was nothing but a fierce sibling-esque loyalty between them, although Rayla knew that she couldn't say the same for her and Callum. In that way they were different.

Since Callum and Rayla's reunion, twelve days had passed. Tomorrow the interviews would commence. Tomorrow would mark the last chance to gain sponsors before the tributes were cast into the arena.

Claudia, of all people, insisted that she prepare Rayla for her interview.

"I'm doing this for Callum," Claudia told Rayla evenly. "Soren has a natural charm with the people - a charm that he doesn't know how to drill into his tributes. You're his first girl, too. Girls are harder to train than boys, when it comes to the interview."

"I don't remember watching your interview. Can I see it before we start trainin' for mine?"

"My interview was a joke," Claudia recalled. "I came across as too bellicose." She lowered her gaze to Rayla. "But I proved myself in the arena, and I won."

With that, training began.

* * *

Curfew was a strict eleven o'clock the night before the interviews and Rayla welcomed it, after her myriad of hours with Claudia.

* * *

A day before the Games, Rayla roused herself from her lightweight slumber due to a noise outside of her quarters. It was two in the morning. Dreams and reality blended together for her.

_Did I really hear someone knocking?_

Part of the girl violently longed to see Runaan and Tide. When she opened her door, she imagined she was seeing her uncles. Runaan was telling her that his limp was fading and his mind was strengthening to what it once was. Tide was beside him, nodding and informing Rayla that she could return home. Two of their hands were clasped together, the remaining two were outstretched to Rayla, inviting her home.

Indeed a familiar face peeked through that crack in her door, but it wasn't who she'd been dreaming of.

"Cal-"

Her ally put a finger to his lips.

Rayla opened the door a bit wider, trying to blink the sleep from her eyes.

"Come with me."

Callum vanished into the hallway, forcing Rayla to sneak after him on bare feet.

When he turned around to confirm that Rayla was following him, Callum smiled mildly, taking her hand and leading her to the rarely-used stairway.

Within minutes, Rayla lost count of how many floors they had ascended. Soon Callum pushed open a lone, heavy door, and guided her after him while he disappeared beyond it.

"The roof?"

Rayla's accent was thick with fatigue, Callum noticed. She had rolled her tongue between the two syllables and for whatever reason, it seemed to wake him up.

"I've been coming up here in my spare time," he waved his hand to the building behind them as he spoke, "To get away from it all."

"I do miss my alone time," Rayla grieved humorously, giving Callum's hand a squeeze.

Everything was colder that night (principally because the two were at the top of a skyscraper). The wind was a little bit louder, the sky a little bit darker despite the city's artificial illumination. Both allies shuffled towards the edge of the roof, sitting down on the ledge with their feet dangling and their hands still interlocked.

Callum appeared to be weary, though. His head was hanging low and his gaze had dropped from Rayla.

"I thought ye were afraid of heights," Rayla teased gently.

Callum shrugged. "I thought so too, but tonight heights are the least of my fears. Maybe I'm just getting used to the distance."

"Perhaps."

Silence developed between them for a short time. No tribute was allowed outside of the Training Center, so this was one of the rare instances that either of them was able to see the city for what it truly was.

(They silently concluded that they weren't very fond of it.)

"It's been weeks since I last saw the moon. I didn't know I would miss it this much," Rayla said.

"I think I've just missed the sky as a whole."

"Well, the moon is part of the sky," Rayla said with a smile

Callum grinned back at her. "Yeah. It's its home."

As their grip on each other's hands intensified, Rayla couldn't help but frown.

"The moon and sky we'll see in the arena won't be real." Her expression altered into annoyance. "Tonight could be the last time I see the moon and I cannae even see it!"

Callum's grip slackened. "I'm sorry, Rayla."

"It's not your fault," she seethed.

Again, it was quiet.

Then Callum began speaking, although it appeared that he was simply talking to his ally, not at her - his face was directed towards the city beneath their feet. Blaring traffic, spiraling lights, and unprompted winds threatened to drown out his voice, so Rayla crept closer.

"I still don't regret it." Callum glanced at Rayla, his expression softening for half a second. "Despite everything, I don't regret volunteering, but I wish it hadn't come to this. Ezran . . . I knew he didn't have the heart for battle and I couldn't stand by _again _to watch someone I love die." His last words were nearly swept away by the wind. "So I made him take my place by taking his."

"Callum," Rayla murmured, laying her other hand on his shoulder. Callum veered into her touch, unable to meet her saddened gaze.

"I need this to be worth something, Rayla. I need our suffering to be worth something."

"Ezran's safe," Rayla reminded him. "And if I don't make it out of this," she went on, perhaps too quietly and too slowly for him to hear, "I will do everythin' in my power to make sure you become Victor."

Her ally blinked up at her, grateful and horrified, before hugging her tightly.

"I think I know a way we can win," he whispered.

Rayla backed away from him, raising an eyebrow. "What's your definition of winnin'?"

"Being Victor."

"Ye see, that was singular. There's only one Victor. There's no such thing as _Victors _from the same Game."

Callum's expression was pleading, his hand in hers was damp.

"I want you to trust me, Rayla. If you trust me, we can both be Victors."

Reticence echoed behind Callum's declaration.

"I thought we _did _trust each other," she said quietly.

"I trust you with my life. If you trust me with yours . . ."

Rayla jerked her hands back, cradling her elbows against herself and looking hurt.

"I just, I can't tell you. You're smart though, Rayla, I know you'll understand. If we ever talked about it, we could be discovered and I can't let that happen. The people need to believe in us."

No part of what he was saying was making sense to Rayla.

"Please," Callum went on. "Trust me."

"I hate how easily I do," Rayla admitted after a long moment.

A smile tweaked Callum's face, although Rayla didn't mirror the action. When Callum leaned in for another hug, she remained still.

"Rayla, I promise that if I don't make it out of this, I will leave only after I've made you Victor. For Runaan," he mumbled, muffled against her shoulder.

When Rayla felt his eyelashes fold down against her neck, she realized that he'd closed his eyes.

"For your Kin."

Rayla combed her fingers through Callum's hair. "For Ezran." Her voice shook with enmity for the whole situation, clutching him tighter. "For your Coalition."


End file.
